


What's Gained

by Jadis



Series: Transformation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post Reichenbach - AU after S3 Premieres, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadis/pseuds/Jadis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sherlock alive, but a small faction of Moriarty’s network still unaccounted for, John finds himself in a ‘safe house’ trying to understand his conflicted emotions and why Sherlock is acting completely ‘Wrong!’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L_Morgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Once More, With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/256293) by [cellard00rs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs). 



> As per always: I own nothing. To l_Morgan - thanks for waiting for your birthday pressie. And thank you for the beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

The days that followed John finding Sherlock alive in his childhood bed were a rollercoaster.  Just being in the same room with his ex-flatmate caused a maelstrom of emotions with which John struggled to cope.  At times swamped with grief, then overwhelmed with anger, he’d leave, to “get some fresh air,” and hopefully, a fresh perspective.

Sherlock had taken it all in with somber eyes, not questioning John.  Why would he?  John mused.  No doubt Sherlock had all the answers he needed by just looking at him.

Mycroft had provided so much information John felt like his brain was going to melt.   He’d outlined how once Sherlock’s wound was better they’d both be moved to the Holmes Estate.  Apparently there were still five minor members of Moriarity’s merry band of criminals that Mycroft and NSY were ferreting out.  Hopefully as they spoke. 

He and Mycroft had long, sometimes angry discussions regarding the private security firm Mycroft had vetted and subsequently engaged to protect them.  John had flinched at the “Private security.” He knew the type.  He’d run into them several times in Afghanistan.  They were basically mercenaries: hired killers.  No better than Moriarty or Moran really, in John’s book.

When he’d said as much, Mycroft had smiled his ‘aren’t-you-an-idiot-smile’ and then lectured John about making sweeping generalizations and how, in this case, John should be thankful as they are now working for us. 

In an effort to change the subject, John had asked if the Holmes Estate was currently occupied.   Mycroft had run through the four members of staff onsite.

 “Mummy’s in New York,” Sherlock had chimed in.

“Oh,” John said disappointed.  Frankly it was hard to believe the brothers had ever been children, let alone babies to be carried to term in the normal fashion, born the regular old fashioned way.  Had they really worn nappies, had their annual jabs, learned to walk, and ride bikes, like any child had?

“She keeps a flat in the City, overlooking Central Park,” Sherlock added.

John was taken aback.  “Really? You never said.”

Sherlock’s face took on a look of disgust.  “New York is Dull.  It’s like London with insufferable manners.  I was there a few weeks last year.”

John gaped, mercilessly crushed the hurt blossoming in his heart.  Logically it made sense that Sherlock’s family had known he was alive, but still.   He forced a smile.  “I wouldn’t’ve have minded a visit to New York.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in distaste.  “I'm sure Mummy would be glad to put you up.

John looked down into his tea, biting his tongue.

They’d walked through Mycroft’s plan to keep the elder Watsons safe, which John was embarrassed to admit he hadn’t even thought about.  They would be taking a two week holiday to the French Riviera while some ‘work’ on the house was being completed.  His parents’ had been amazed to have won a trip from his mum’s work and his father’s school was conveniently accommodating, given it was middle of the term, to allow him the time off.

To the Watsons' neighbors it would look like they’d just had their gutters done, in reality, their house would have had scramblers installed on their phone lines.  A small room would be retrofitted behind the back of the closet in the master bedroom, secreting a small stairway up into the attic where a ‘safe haven’ would have been created, including secure phone lines and supplies to last 24-48 hours.

John had goggled.  “Seriously?  Is that all necessary?”

“Sherlock has a tendency to involve himself with dangerous people.  In the past you’ve chosen to associate with him,” Mycroft said.  “It seems best to take these precautions with your family.”

“But not with my sister?” John asked.

"Harriet is getting some attention,” Mycroft said.

“Christ, it’s like living in a James Bond movie.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said a tight smile on his face.  “But in this case, the technology actually works.”

As John’s parents’ return from Bath grew imminent he reluctantly agreed that Sherlock was fit enough to travel. He changed the dressing twice a day, gently probing the perimeter of the wound, ensuring the infection was spreading no further.  He was still doubtful about the entrance wound itself.  After hooking up the line into the port in Sherlock’s arm – thank god his phlebotomy skills were exemplary – he sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed.

“Problem?”  Sherlock asked, voice neutral.

Grimacing, John nodded toward the newly bandaged wound.  “I’m a bit concerned, to be honest.”  He sighed.  “I’m afraid that wound needs to be reopened and a drain inserted.”

“How tedious,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” John agreed. “And I’m worried about exposure to additional infection.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock said.  He jerked his chin to the pole holding the drip.  “I’m familiar with the antibiotic you’ve chosen and the dosage.  It is strong enough to cure a horse of a rampant systemic infection.”

“Well, yes,” John admitted.  “You might be exaggerating a bit regarding the dosage but I am very concerned about systemic infection.”  John tried for a bit of levity:  “It would be a shame if you died in my bed after  -- ”  He’d broken off, realizing what he’d said.

“I agree.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened.  “If I’m going to ‘die in your bed’ I’d prefer it to be under different circumstances.”

John’s mouth dropped, but quickly snapped shut. “Right.  Yes.  I mean – ”  he shook head, trying to clear it, desire pooling in his belly.  He stood.  “I’m going to go speak to Mycroft about additional medical supplies.  Just in case we have to, you know, operate.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, pressing those perfect bow lips together.  “You know where to find me,” he stated, his voice dark, thick with promise.

Or was that just John’s overactive imagination? Either way he beat a hasty retreat.  Sherlock was his patient.  He was wounded.  What kind of perv did it make John that just the sound of that honeyed tone set his hormones into overdrive like a 15-year-old?

~ooOoo~

 

Sherlock stared at the door through which John had hastily exited.  He didn’t understand. He frowned.  Hadn’t John admitted that he had feelings for him?  Didn’t those feelings seem to indicate there was a physical attraction as well?

Or did they?  Furiously, he thumbed thought the memories of the last few days: John’s hands, carefully touching him, but only at the wound.  And a chaste kiss on the forehead.  He’d had more lascivious kisses with cousins before he decided kissing was messy and dull. 

In fact: John had said he was ‘in love with him.’  He’d never said anything about wanting him, physically.

What if he didn’t?

Sherlock felt his breath catch somewhere between his chest and his throat.  He didn’t really care if John wasn’t physically attracted to him. 

Did he?

~ooOoo~

 

Mycroft gave John a knowing look when he’d arrived downstairs, shifting from foot to foot, brow furrowed. Finally to break the silence John asked, “Er, cup of tea?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, rising from the chair where he’d camped out with his laptop.  “Allow me.”

Dumbly, John followed him into the kitchen.

“Everything quite alright?” Mycroft asked after filling and flipping on the kettle.

“I –” John began.  Then stopped.  “Honestly?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft said.  “And confidentially I might add.” He cocked his head.  “After all: we are in the kitchen and there are biscuits about to be consumed.”

John laughed, and felt some of the tension easing from his shoulders, particularly his bad shoulder.  “I don’t know what to do, Mycroft,” he admitted.  “I don’t know what I feel.  I don’t know if he feels.” He took a deep steadying breath.  “Just now I would have sworn he was flirting with me, and I just – panicked.”

“Any particular reason for the panic?” Mycroft asked, opening the cupboard and pulling down two mugs and the loose tea.

“That’s just it,” John said.  “I don’t know.  I mean.  Is Sherlock really capable of flirting?”

Mycroft gave him a look. 

“I mean I’m sure he is very adept at it.  I’ve seen him charm women and men into anything he wanted for a case.” John broke off, biting his lip.  “But does he really mean it?  With me, I mean?  Or is it because he thinks I want it?”

“Do you?” Mycroft asked.  “Is that what you want?”

“Oh God yes,” John said, his voice a little too hungry a little too loud.  He blushed to the roots of his hair.  “At least it is when I’m not wanting to kill him.”  John took another steadying breath.  “Sounds a bit odd, but part of me is still furious.”

“I believe that is understandable, John,” Mycroft said. 

“Understandable?” John repeated. “Understandable that as happy as I am that your brother is alive I am so furious with him I’d love to punch him in the face.”  He ran a hand across his forehead.  “And yet, I see the toll it took on his body.  That bloody infection still concerns me.  I don’t know what to feel: it’s like I love and hate him at the same time.”

Mycroft remained impassive.

“God this must be awkward for you. To hear me talk about your brother this way.”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said.  “It pleases me that someone could care for Sherlock.”  The kettle clicked off, and he busied himself with warming the pot: swishing the hot water, discarding it, measuring out the tea and filling the pot with hot water.  “I don’t know how to answer your concerns about what Sherlock feels or does not feel.  However, I do know my brother. I doubt he’d do anything he didn’t want to, regardless of the perceived benefit in doing so.” 

He positioned the much used, slightly tea stained cozy and pulled it down over the brown betty.  He turned back to face John squarely.  “On the other hand, it has been my experience, as a male, that it is far harder to determine a woman’s true desire, as opposed to the male of the species.  We have handy ‘indicators,’ if you will.”

John laughed, then blushed.  “That’s good,” he said.  “Ta for that.”

They lapsed into companionable silence for a moment as John moved to the fridge to pull out the milk and they waited for the tea to brew.


	2. Chapter 2

Keyed up on nerves and frayed emotions, John got very little sleep the night they were to begin their trek to Henley-on-Thames.  Mycroft felt it imperative that they leave separately, partially to keep Sherlock’s existence from John’s parents, but also so there was no chance Sherlock and John would be spotted together.

Sherlock went first, well after three AM, dressed in black from top to bottom he was secreted into an average looking sedan – not one of Mycroft’s usual affairs. 

Within a few hours John’s parents would return.  He’d have just enough time to kiss them and tell them to keep safe when he’d take a taxi to the train station.

John was to enter the men’s loo on one of the station, then exit out the other side wearing a different jacket, white trainers, and a baseball cap, no longer carrying the bag he’d stashed in the bin, to be picked up later to retrieve his clothes.

The trip from Sussex took a circuitous path, going to Reading, up through Slough.  At Slough they stopped at a lorry station and John hunched down as he transferred to the back of a linen service’s van. 

It had been 14 hours since he’d seen Sherlock and John’s stomach was in knots as he imagined how the trip may have affected him – especially given his condition. Two men were there to lift out a false back, and he breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock lying in a makeshift nest of hotel table clothes, paler than normal, but conscious.

“We’re to deliver towels,” Sherlock drawled as John opened up his med kit, pulling out a stethoscope, thermometer and gloves.

“Don’t use them” Sherlock said, tone pitiful.

“What?” John asked.  “Don’t use what?”

“The gloves.”

“Why not?” John asked.  The lighting was dim but he pulled up Sherlock’s shirt, looking for signs of latex allergy. 

“I don’t like them,” Sherlock whined.

John sat back on his heels.  “Sherlock – you’re vulnerable to germs.  Unless you’ve got some allergy I’m not aware of, the gloves stay on.”

“It’s not open, John.” Sherlock said.  “It can’t possibly get any worse.”

John sighed and sheathed the thermometer.  “Open up,” he said.  Then was grateful to see the result was normal.

John had been warned that the last leg of the journey would be at least a couple of hours and he watched Sherlock wince with each stop and start of the truck.  “Do you need something for the pain?”

Sherlock shook his head.

They rode along, time crawling, as they traveled down bumpy two lane roads. There were endless stops where they heard the driver turn off the van, slamming the driver door after getting out.  Followed next by the opening of the back door and sliding out prefilled plastic containers only to have the back doors slammed shut and what seemed like interminable waiting until he was back, reversing the process as he tossed in the used linen, then went on his way to his next stop.

Eventually the van slowed and turned right Sherlock said, “We’re here.”

“What?” John said, before thinking.  “Never mind,” he muttered.  Of course Sherlock would know the turn off to his childhood home.

It was another five minutes before they rolled to a stop.  Within seconds the false back was open and John helped Sherlock to sit, steadying him as he attempted to stand on shaky legs crouched over due to the roof of the truck.

Mycroft’s face appeared in the back, he put his arm out and Sherlock took it as he stepped out.  John followed, seeing two armed guards, assassins.  He pulled a face, causing Mycroft to frown.  “If they do their job well, you’ll never see them or their comrades during your stay here.”

John just ignored him, sticking close to Sherlock.  As they entered the house, John saw a thin woman in a plain black dress.  In her early to mid 60’s he’d guess.

“Mrs. Meadows,” Mycroft said, “This is Doctor John Watson.”

“Dr. Watson,” she said tipping her head.  “Welcome to Augustine House.”

 “So this is officially ‘off the grid’?” John asked following the small group inside, stopping in the entry hall.  Not entry way, oh no.  An entry way would not even be reasonably close to this space.  It was a hall and a huge one at that. “Or as ‘off the grid’ as you can be living in the lap of luxury.”  Looking up, he felt almost dizzy.  The house was at least four stories, if not more, up.  It was the epitome of gothic architecture.

“You grew up here?” he asked not even bothering to curb the incredulity.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“How in the hell did you survive at Baker Street?” John asked.  The house was indescribable.  It reminded him of the palaces – yes, _palaces_ , he’d visited as a schoolboy with his classmates. 

“I’m rather fond of Baker Street,” Sherlock said, a sulk in his voice.  “You should have seen my flat on Montague.

“Be thankful you did not,” Mycroft said.  “It was a deathtrap.”

“It was not,” Sherlock responded.  “At least it wasn’t until I burned the kitchen down.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said his tone dry.  “There was that.”

“Shall I take you up to your rooms?” Mrs. Meadows interjected, smoothly.

Mycroft turned to her with a smile.  “That would be lovely,” Mycroft said.  “I’m sure Sherlock and our guest would like to rest.”

As he made his way up the beautifully carved mahogany staircase John couldn’t get his mind wrapped around it.  “It’s like Downtown Abbey,” he said, marvel in his tone.   Mrs. Meadow stopped on the stairs and turned to look at him.  “Pre-war, of course,” he added hastily.

“I don’t know that reference,” Sherlock said, looking at John, his brow furrowed.

 “Never mind,” John said.  “I’ll explain later.

At the landing on the first floor, Mrs. Meadows turned off into the hallway.   Smiling she turned to John as she stopped at the second door on the right. “You’ll have a private bath as you’ll be the only one in residence.”

“Where’s your room?” John asked, pivoting to look at Sherlock.

“Further down on the left,” Sherlock replied.  He looked at Mrs. Meadows.  “I presume?”

“Yes, my dear,” she said to Sherlock, then looked back at John. “Will that be satisfactory?”

John had to stop himself from shaking his head.  Mrs. Meadows spoke like a posh Mrs. Hudson.  He started when he realized everyone was looking to him.  “Sorry, what?”

“Is the location to your liking?” Mrs. Meadows. “It is the closest to the stairs but there shouldn’t be much foot traffic unless Master Mycroft is in residence.”  She gestured toward the door across the hall.

“Oh yes,” he said, quickly.  “I’m sure it will be fine. 

She opened the door, and nodded for John to enter. 

Stepping inside John stopped and stared.  He’d never even been in a room as nice as this.  It was out of one of those ridiculously OTT shows about the rich and famous in America.  It was frankly, ridiculously, over the top.  The room was not only larger than John’s bedsit; it might even be larger than Mary’s flat as well.  Decorated in ivory and taupe the walls were broken up what John vaguely recalled from school as architectural wall panels.  Each one had a hand-painted center.

He heard murmured voices in the hall, then a soft knock on the open door.  Mycroft was in the doorway.  “May I?” he asked.

“It’s your house,” John said.  “By all means.”

“I presume you’ll be comfortable?”

“I don’t know that ‘comfortable’ is a word I’d have used,” John said.  “Do you have quarters for your house staff?”

Mycroft looked abashed.  “Why of course we do.  They will be staying in residence during this siege.”

John did a double take.  “A siege?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.  “You are to consider yourself under siege until such a time that we have apprehended the last few players.”

“And how long will that take?” John asked.

“As we discussed at your parents’ home: we hope to have it wrapped up within the next 4-6 weeks.”

John sighed.

“We’ll cover all of this when we go down to dinner,” Mycroft said.  “Do you have a concern about the staff?”

“What?” John asked, perplexed.

“You asked if we had staff quarters.  Do you have concerns about Mrs. Meadows?  You haven’t met our cook, Mrs. Carlisle, or the gardener, Emmanuel.  And while she isn’t currently onsite, Mrs. Meadows has an assistant named Katie who will be returning in a day or two.” Mycroft said.  “If you have concerns I can assure you all of the staff have been completely vetted and most have been with us for more than twenty years.”

“No,” John said, heat rising in his face.  “I meant: well, this room is a little more opulent, I guess is the word, than I’m used to.  I mean – I was wondering if there was a different area, you know, something a little less posh?”

Mycroft cocked his head quizzically.  “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he said.

“Mycroft,” John began.  “I’m a simple doctor working for the NHS. I live in a bedsit.  I’m here to ensure Sherlock heals properly – ”

Mycroft cut him off with a raised hand.  “John.  I think we both know you aren’t here as a member of our household staff.”

John began to protest but Mycroft cut him off again.  “Really, John – do you think Sherlock would allow you to sleep in the staff quarters?  Additionally, I don’t believe Sherlock is the only one who requires time to ‘heal’.”

Running his hands over his face, John didn’t really know what to do or to say at this point.  “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally.  “I’m tired.”

“Pretend you’re on a luxury vacation, if you must,” Mycroft suggested.  “We have heated swimming pool, an exercise studio in the basement and acres of land to walk upon and food and drink at your disposal day or night.”

Mycroft stepped further into the room and pointed to a panel with a button and speaker on it next to the bed.  “You can even enjoy breakfast in bed if you like. This will ring down to the kitchen. Just let Mrs. Carlisle know your preference for the morning.”

“It’s too much, Mycroft,” John said. 

“Ah – well, since you’re already overwhelmed, best get this out of the way now.”  He strolled over to a door in the far corner of the room and opened it.  “I’ve taken the liberty to order you some things you’ll need while you’re here.”

“What?” John said.  “What things?”  Moving quickly he pushed past Mycroft and into a closet the likes of which he’d only ever seen on telly.  Luckily only a portion of one side held clothes. He turned back to Mycroft, defensiveness in his stance and his tone.  “Where are my things? I thought you were bringing my things here!”

“I said I was bringing you clothes,” Mycroft amended.  “John, let’s be candid: your clothes hang on you as if you were a scarecrow or a recently escaped refugee; you’ve dropped so much weight.  I believe you’ll find this selection – including jumpers which you seem to favor – will be a better fit.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft interrupted him again.  “Besides, as we’ll discuss in detail later, I needed your things.  Dr. John H. Watson has decided to take a walkabout in Australia to get a fresh perspective.  He has already boarded a plane to Sydney.”

John gaped.

“Your clothing, shoes, toiletries and several books you had are all in one of your suitcases to ensure we could litter DNA all along the path.”

John closed his mouth without saying a word. 

They stood in silence and John took stock of the clothing he could readily see.  It could have been much worse, he realized.  He saw jeans, shirts, trousers, jumpers.  “You’re a real piece of work,” he said, accepting the inevitable.

Mycroft nodded his head.  “You’re welcome.  In the drawers you’ll find pyjamas, pants, vests, swimwear, and lounging clothes. A robe is hanging in the bathroom.  If there is anything we’ve missed, please let Mrs. Meadow’s know and I’ll have the items delivered.”

“How did you know my sizes?” John asked.

Smiling Mycroft shook his head.  “John, you underestimate my powers of observation.   They were apparent by looking at you.”

“But, I don’t even know my size,” John protested. 

“I knew your measurements,” Mycroft said.  “The rest was easy.”

John rubbed his eyes.  “Okay,” he relented. “I give.”

“That would be for the best,” Mycroft said, a smug smile on his face.  “I’m going to go see how Sherlock is settling in.  Please feel free to refresh yourself. We’ll eat dinner at 8pm.  Please join me for a cocktail at 7.30, if you like.”

John jolted.  “Dinner?  You mean like you ‘dress for dinner’?”

Mycroft gave a quick nod.  “It is our habit, but since Mummy isn’t in residence, there is no need.”

John looked back into the closet.  “What does ‘one’ wear to dinner?” he asked.

“You’ll find two suits and four dress shirts in the suit bags,” Mycroft said.  “However, as I said, feel free to wear what you are wearing.”

 

~ooOoo~

“Where is John?” Sherlock asked, as Mycroft entered the room.

“He’s in his room getting settled,” Mycroft said, voice as smooth as silk.  “Do you require him?”

Sherlock watched as Mycroft took in the room.  He didn’t know why it was so interesting.  It hadn’t changed since before Sherlock left for uni: chocolate walls, white crown molding, half canopied bed with white bed clothing, a brown leather bench at the end of the bed with a magenta cashmere throw lying across it.

Slumping on the bed where he’d needed to rest after walking up the stairs – _Oh God, could he be anymore tired??_ – “Close the door,” he said.

His mouth twisting at the command, no doubt, Mycroft complied.  “Yes, Brother Dear?”

“Why – ” Sherlock broke off.  “I don’t under – ” he drew in a sharp breath.  Why was this so hard?  It made no sense.  He’d done all of this for John and yet now, John was more distant than Sherlock had ever seen him.

Mycroft’s eagle eye took in all the things Sherlock could not voice.  “Give him time,” he said.  “It’s been a shock.”

“But how long?” Sherlock bit out.  “How long will it take?”

“I cannot answer that, Brother,” Mycroft said, crossing to the room and perching on the end of the bed.  “I’ll grant you the good doctor seems to be by turns running hot and cold, but it’s been less than five days.”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over Mycroft, as if he could pull a secret Mycroft was withholding.  “I. Don’t. Understand.”  And shame and defeat caught in his throat.  “On that first day it seemed as if…as if he was….and now: now I feel like one of his blasted patients.  I don’t understand.” Sherlock couldn’t even be bothered that he sounded like a sniveling school girl.

“Sentiment,” Mycroft said.  “Not our forte,” his voice was soft. 

“He talks more to you than me!” Sherlock said, voice only lowered enough to ensure John wouldn’t hear him at the other end of the hall.  “Why?  He never liked you! Yet you have become his confidante.”

“Sherlock.  Patience.  Something else, not your strong suit.”

Something in Mycroft’s tone had Sherlock locking his gaze on his brother’s face.

“You’re leaving tonight,” Sherlock accused.  “And when you’re gone?  Who will act as intermediary for us then?”

Mycroft smiled.  “I think it is for the best.  With me out of the picture you’ll both be more inclined to work through this situation between you.  Or you’ll spend a lot of time in solitude.  Take heart: both paths will most likely lead you to the same place.”  Mycroft rose in a smooth motion.  “Rest now.  You’ve been overtired today.”

Mycroft paused and Sherlock knew his brother was waiting for him to argue.  But Sherlock couldn’t find it within himself to care.  Not even enough for a token protest.

Eyeing him sharply in return Mycroft narrowed his eyes.  “Dinner is at 8pm.  I’ve invited John for a cocktail at 7.30pm. Feel free to join us.”

“So I can sip ginger ale?” Sherlock said his voice a shadow of its previous snide self.

“Until you are off the antibiotics, yes,” Mycroft replied.  “I’m sure you’ve time to rest.  John won’t run the line until after you have eaten.”

“No doubt,” Sherlock muttered, giving into the tiredness, sinking into his bed.  He was mostly asleep when he felt Mycroft cover him with the angora throw.


	3. Chapter 3

Refreshed from his nap, John had rose, showered, and then swathed in an overly plush white dressing gown stood in the closet, staring dubiously at the suit bags.  He’d rolled his eyes when he’d seen shoe bags attached at the top. On the other hand, he doubted the white trainers he’d been wearing would be quite the thing for ‘dinner’.

Taking the lot over to the bed, he laid them out and delved in.  Might as well see what the damage was.

Ten minutes later found him in front of the full length mirror inside the well lit closet.  He turned side to side, checking the fit across his shoulders.  He had to give it to Mycroft.  While the suits weren’t as fitted as Sherlock’s – thank God – they fit him better than anything previously owned.

He had chosen the black suit and one of the ridiculously silky white shirts.  In the armoire, also inside the closet, he’d found ties.  He frowned.  Sherlock didn’t often wear ties.  But this was ‘dress optional’ since Mrs. Holmes wasn’t here, which was a shame actually.  John had secretly wanted to meet her, though he’d never said as much.

Deciding to go all in, he pulled out a thin black tie.  The conservative approach seemed the safest.  Best to see how this went over before he braved the colored shirts and ties Mycroft et al had provided.

He’d pulled on socks that probably cost more than what he normally paid for his jeans – ditto the pants on his backside.  He’d slid his feet into what had to be bespoke Italian leather shoes.  How the hell Mycroft had pulled all this off he had no idea. 

John shoved away the annoying voice in the back of his head that he was being ‘kept. Brought up to the minimum Holmesian standard so he could date the younger brother.’

Checking his cuffs were straight one more time, he made one last micro-adjustment to his tie and nodded at his reflection.  He turned sharply, heading out of the room before he lost his nerve.

John followed the murmurs of voices; he stood at the threshold of the study.  His breath caught in his throat at the shock of seeing Sherlock alive.  Even though it had been five days some part of his brain just couldn’t catch up.

Sherlock was also in a black suit, but he’d chosen a sapphire blue shirt John had never seen before.  No tie.  Of course.

Sherlock broke off mid-sentence, a quick inhalation of breath and did a double take.  “John.”

Clearing his throat, John stepped into the room, shuffling a bit, heat flushing his face as Sherlock stared.  Perhaps John wasn’t the only person having trouble adjusting.

“Ah, John,” Mycroft said, rising from the chair and moving toward a  long cabinet where a tray of cut glass, ice, and what was most likely whiskey were laid out.  “Can I get you a drink?”

Focusing on Mycroft, John told his legs to ‘move’, and walked in.  “Please.”

In short order Mycroft handed him a drink, giving him the once over.  “I see you found what you needed?” he inquired, voice pleasant.

“Yes,” John said.  “Thank you for that.”  He looked down gesturing toward his lower body.  “I don’t know how you managed it, but thanks.”  Darting his eyes back to Sherlock, he was pleased to see Sherlock still had a slightly stunned look on his face.  Good. 

Feeling more confident, John took the wingback chair that Mycroft wasn’t occupying, which put him directly across from Sherlock on the couch.  John noted that Sherlock’s mask of impassivity was firmly in place. 

John suppressed a grin remembering the look on Sherlock’s face as John had stepped into the study.  Taking a sip of ridiculously good whiskey, he allowed himself to sink into the buttery brown leather, the patina weathered over time and so much softer than any other material John had ever sat on.  Ever. 

Glancing about, he took in the warmly paneled walls, backlit by conservative stained glass lamps scattered about the room, the ceiling also emitted a low level light via a late update inset, John would bet. 

“I was just filling in Sherlock on the latest intelligence we’ve received,” Mycroft said.  “There is a heretofore unknown faction still operating in Johannesburg.”

John cut his eyes to Sherlock, but his face gave no clue as to his thoughts.

“We hope it is nothing but chatter,” Mycroft continued.  “But we need to take the appropriate precautions.”

John nodded.  “Right.  So what’s the plan then?”

Mrs. Meadows stepped into the room before Mycroft could answer.  “Master. Holmes.  Dinner is ready, at your convenience.

“Thank you, Mrs. Meadows,” Mycroft said, rising.  “Shall we?”

Sherlock and John stood as well, following Mycroft out of the room like ducks in a row.

No surprise at all that the dining room was as spacious as every other room John had been in so far.  It too had a fireplace and French paneling dividing the long expanse of walls.  Another large chandelier as well as wall sconces lit the room from one end to the other.  The table currently had a dozen chairs, and John assumed this was it at its smallest.  The room was certainly large enough to contain far more.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Mycroft said, as he seated himself at the head of the table, John to his left, Sherlock to his right.  “We kept the meal simple this evening.”

John raised his eyebrow at the ‘simple’.  From what he could see, the settings were placed for salad, bread, water, wine and quite possibly a dessert fork at the top.  He picked up his napkin and settled it on his lap.  “I’ll make sure to adjust my expectations accordingly” he said, his voice wry.

“Quite,” Mycroft said.

Hearing an inelegant snort, he looked up in time to see Sherlock’s smirk before reschooling his features.  John was pleased to see it, to catch Sherlock’s eye while one of them was giggling inappropriately.  It was the first real contact they’d had that almost felt normal since Sherlock’s ‘return’.

Suppressing a sigh, John.  Normal?  What on earth was normal about this situation?  In his mind it had all turned pear shaped after that first day at his parents’.  It was true he was thrilled beyond belief that Sherlock was alive.  But he’d regretted almost as soon as the words flew out of his mouth declaring his recently realized feelings for his ex-flatmate.

It had been colossally stupid to blurt it out.  And now, John didn’t know how to move forward.  Moreover, he was no longer sure that he wanted to.

So, instead of moving ahead with it, he’d dropped back into a comfortable persona: a doctor tending to a patient.  Every time Sherlock had made any sort of suggestive comment or added just a little silk into his already rich baritone, John had run, sometimes almost literally, away from the mostly bed-ridden Sherlock and into the relative safety of his mother’s kitchen, sharing his angst with Mycroft.  Who, surprisingly enough, made a pretty good Agony Aunt.

As John was trying to shake the image of Mycroft answering letters from love sick teenagers out of his head, Mrs. Meadows came in with the expected plate of mixed greens, disappeared through the swinging door, returning in a moment with a dressing boat, offering it to them each in turn before placing it on an accompanying plate in front of Mycroft.

As silently as a ghost, Mrs. Meadow appeared at his left, holding a breadbasket.  He nodded, his mouth watering.  The rolls were homemade – no doubt about it.  He could smell the yeasty warmth. “They smell lovely,” he said to Mrs. Meadows, as she continued around the table.

She nodded briefly, and John said no more.

He’d only gotten two bites of his salad down before Mycroft began ‘The Briefing.’

Three shifts of armed ‘guards’ running two lines of perimeter around the entire property would be there at all times.  There were eight men inside the house:  four on the top floor, four in the basement.  Everything in the house was already secured, the entire estate was being regularly for listening devices.

They were free to roam, outside of the house and into outer buildings; however, a Kevlar vest would be required.  Mycroft pointed out that they each had rain gear large enough to cover the vest without it being noticeably over large. He then mentioned a hunting cap they’d been developing which should be worn with the vest at all times – no exceptions. “John, I know this is nothing new for you.”

“Well, actually, it isn’t exactly the same,” John said gesturing around him. “I’ve never been involved in a safe house situation before, but I understand the stakes and the risk.” His eyes landed on Sherlock. 

“I don’t think you do,” Sherlock said, staring over his hands folded in front of him as if in prayer.

John stopped fork midway to the salad plate. It was the first time Sherlock had spoken to him directly since he’d come downstairs.  “Sorry, what?”

“I am not the target,” Sherlock said.  “At least not directly.”

Placing the fork to the top left, signaling he was finished with the salad, John smiled, as if he were talking to an elderly doddering patient.  “Care to clarify?”

“ _You_ are the direct target,” Sherlock said, tone steady, but something brewed in his eyes.

“Am I?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, drawing John’s attention.  “While they are focused on hurting Sherlock, they appear to be rather two-dimensional in their thinking and are using the same strategy as their previous attempts: hurting you to get at Sherlock.”

John kept the polite smile on his place as Mrs. Meadows and another woman appeared to clear the salad, then bring out the main course.

“Mrs. Carlisle,” Mycroft said.  “This is our guest, Dr. John Watson.”

The woman in her early fifties was tidy, her face flushed, probably from cooking, John thought as she carried in a roast and veg, potatoes and Yorkshire pudding.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” she said, her voice demure, with just a touch of soft Scottish brogue. 

John immediately began to scoot back to stand and greet her. She was comfortably plump, and it made John smile.  ‘Never trust a skinny cook’ his Mum had always said.  Her blonde hair was greying and it was up in a messy bun, tendrils escaping.  John guessed her to be around the same age as Mrs. Meadows, give or take a year or two.

“Oh no, sir,” she said immediately.  “Please stay seated.  Your dinner will get cold and then where would you be?”

He smiled, and reseated himself.

After Mrs. Carlisle set down the hot dishes, she whipped off the oven mitts and nodded toward John’s empty whiskey glass.  He nodded back and she removed it.  “Now breakfast will be served whenever you like.  Full English for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” John began.  “I mean.  I can cook. I can get it myself.”

“Oh no, sir,” she said.  “I mean, you’re welcome to help yourself to whatever you might need but I’d prefer you leave the cooking to me.  If you understand my meaning.”  Her eyes flicked over to Sherlock.

John laughed.  Oh, the stories she could probably tell him about Sherlock and experiences threatening to blow up her kitchen.  “Right then,” he said. 

“I’ll leave out tea makings and biscuits.  Milk or cream is just inside –   ”

“Carlisle,” Mrs. Meadows said quietly.  “Can you assist with the wine please?”

Mrs. Carlisle’s mouth closed immediately and she looked a bit caught out.  “I do like a good natter,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning closer to John.  “So if you’re lonely or need a cuppa, don’t hesitate to come down.”

“Thanks,” he said.  “I will do.”

Mycroft began passing the food as Mrs. Meadows filled their wine glasses with a rich ruby cabernet.

They ate in silence for a few moments and John almost groaned with how good the food tasted.  While he felt like a traitor for thinking it, he decided this tradition so called simple al meal tasted even better than most of his mum’s holiday extravaganazas.

As he cut off another bit of roast beef, he said.  “I’m not a fan of hiding.”

“You were all for me hiding,” Sherlock said.

John looked up, met his eyes and held the gaze.  “I’m a soldier, Sherlock.”  He speared a potato and brought the forkful to his mouth.  “I do know how to handle myself,” he said, eating the food off the fork.

“No you don’t,” Sherlock said, his voice tight like he was clenching his teeth.  “These people are assassins.  If there is indeed another faction I missed, then they will stop at _nothing_ to kill you.”

John continued holding eye contact, even as he reached for his glass of wine.  He nodded at Mycroft.  “We are as secure as Fort Knox according to Mycroft,” he began.

“ – _That_ is your first mistake,” Sherlock ground out.  “There are always holes.  Always.”  He turned on Mycroft.  “I would have never agreed to this had I known there was another cell out there.”

“This information did not come to me until today,” Mycroft said.  “The players were already in motion.”

John glanced down at Sherlock’s plate.  “Sherlock, please eat something.  You know the antibiotics are more likely to make you feel –”

“Do not molly-coddle me,” Sherlock snapped.  “Save your ‘doctor’ routine for someone else!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice pitched low.

“It’s fine, Mycroft,” John cut in.

“No, _Mycroft”_ Sherlock spat.  “It isn’t ‘fine’.  We’re like sitting ducks here.  I didn’t spend three years hunting down and routing out 250 criminals or more to come back to the place where I was born to watch John die!”

John’s head snapped up.  Two hundred fifty?  Mycroft had assured him Sherlock hadn’t been idle during his time ‘away’ but two hundred fifty?  All over the globe, by the sounds of it.  Memories of being in Mary’s bed, of living a relatively comfortable life, while Sherlock had been god knows where doing god knows what, rattled John.

“We’ve now put Carlisle and Nanny at risk as well!” Sherlock said, fury rolling off of him.  “It is unacceptable.  Move us.”

 _‘Nanny?’_   John questioned in his head.

“Sherlock –” Mycroft began, his voice pitched low.  “There is nothing for it now.”

For a moment Sherlock looked so aggrieved that John felt the squeeze of emotion around his own heart.  He reached out a hand, “We’ll be fine, Sherlock,” he said, striving for a tone of reassurance.  “We’ve always been fine in the past, ‘eh?” He remained still as Sherlock scanned his face.

“I’m going up,” Sherlock said as he pushed his chair back.  “I’m not feeling well.”

John was on his feet immediately, jostling the table to the point he might spill the wine. “What –”

“Stay,” Sherlock said.  “I’ll be fine.” And with a turn, he strode out the door.

Mycroft sighed and laid his utensils down.  “Do sit, John.  Enjoy your meal.”

John sank back down into his chair.

Mrs. Meadows appeared at Mycroft’s right hand.  “Sir?” her face was full of concern as she looked at Sherlock’s vacated seat.  “Shall I?” she motioned to the still full plate.

“Yes, Mrs. Meadows.  Please do.”  Mycroft rubbed his eyes.  “And if you could – ”

“Of course, sir,” she said.  Swiftly, she cleared away Sherlock’s setting.  “I’ll take up some tea and a bit of a Ploughman’s.  That was always a favorite.”

John watched her as she worked; waiting until she’d left the room before turning to Mycroft.  “So – ” John began, nodding toward the door Mrs. Meadows had just disappeared through.  “Did I hear Sherlock correctly?  Was Mrs. Meadows Sherlock’s Nanny?”

Mycroft took in a deep breath and reached for his wine glass, swirling it for a moment, seemingly lost in the legs of the wine.  Finally he answered, “Yes.  Mrs. Meadows had held many positions with us, sometimes simultaneously, but originally she was hired on as Sherlock’s nanny.”

They were silent for a time, and John focused on to his dinner.  But it tasted dull now.  He sighed.  Why was he surprised Sherlock had a nanny?  What else could he have in a house like this?  He looked up and around at his surroundings.  It seemed incredible that his life could become even more surreal than it had five days ago, but here he was.

“So this Johannesburg  
thing,” he began, trying to take his mind off of Sherlock’s upbringing.   “You think it’s serious?”

Mycroft put his knife and fork down, top left hand corner, signaling he was finished.  “I do not know.  I would like to think we didn’t miss anything, didn’t bring Sherlock back too soon.  But I have learned in my many years of service to our Sovereign that careful precautions should always be taken.  What I ‘wish’ or ‘hope for’ will not stop a well aimed bullet.”

“Does this new group change our time line?” John asked, setting his own silverware aside.

Mrs. Meadows were there immediately removing it, silently.

“Unknown,” Mycroft said.  “Not enough data yet.” Mycroft smiled as Mrs. Carlisle sat a small plate of sorbet and ice cream in front of them. 

“I hope you like raspberries and vanilla,” she said, smiling widely at John.  “I made them both fresh today.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely,” John said, tucking into the silver dish she’d placed in front of him.  He waited until she’d left the room before John motioned with his dessert spoon.  “I could get used to all of this,” he said.  “This lifestyle, I mean.  It’s all very nice, isn’t it?”

“Could you really?” Mycroft asked.  “Earlier this afternoon you were asking me to escort you to the staff quarters.”

“Ah no.” John shook his head self-consciously.  “I really couldn’t.”  He sat the spoon down, leaning back as Mrs. Carlisle came in with coffee and cream. 

“Pity,” Mycroft said.  “All of this could be yours, Doctor.”

John raised an eyebrow at him.  “Writing me into your will, Mycroft?”

“No,” Mycroft said, smiling.  “But marrying into the family would certainly benefit us all, don’t you think?”

John was glad the coffee cup was only part way raised to his mouth otherwise he’d have probably spit it all over the heavy damask table cloth.  “Hang on,” he said.  “Is that what this is?  A dry run?”

“No,” Mycroft said.  “Not at all.”  He took a drink of his white coffee.  “However, I think it is always wise to fully vet all viable possibilities.”

John sputtered, sitting the cup down on its saucer.  “You are really something else.  I make the mistake of saying aloud that I have feelings for Sherlock and you’re planning the wedding?”

Mycroft sat back.  “No,” he said.  “But I do fear that you said something under duress that you may wish you could retract.”

John blanched.  Did he?  Did he wish to retract?  Bugger if he knew.  The house, the clothes, the servants: it was too much. Hell, even without all the trapping, Sherlock was too much.

“I think you are still conflicted,” Mycroft continued.  “And rightly so, about Sherlock’s death – or lack thereof.”  He paused.  “I’d even go so far as to say, you don’t really know your own mind.  Or your heart.”

“I beg your – ”

“– Hear me out,” Mycroft interjected.  “Take some time while you are here, John.  Learn about Sherlock’s childhood.  These are the surroundings he grew up in.  With the exception of minor updates in – Mummy does so love to redecorate - the house is as it was.” 

Mycroft’s face was the most open John had ever seen it: care and concern written there plain as day.  “Mrs. Meadows, Mrs. Carlisle and Emmanuel have been here since he was born.  Study Sherlock in his ‘natural environment’ if you will.  See how you feel here.  This is a perfect opportunity to learn about our family while Mummy is not here.  Consider it carte blanche to poke and prod into the Holmes history.”

“I’d prefer Sherlock tell me,” John said a stubborn tone in his voice.  “I’m not one to poke and pry.”

“Then ask him,” Mycroft said simply.  “You two seem to be having trouble communicating.”

“Did he tell you that?” John shot back, heat flushing his face. He pushed the dessert away, appetite suddenly gone.

“As it happens,” Mycroft said.  “He did.  But even if he hadn’t I could observe it for myself.”  Mycroft finished his coffee.  “Join me for a brandy in the drawing room?”

“I – ” John didn’t know what the right answer was.  Part of him wanted to march right up the stairs and have it out with Sherlock.  But another part shrank at the thought.  “I need to go run his antibiotics,” he said, voice quiet with a little bit of defeat.

“As you see fit,” Mycroft said.  “I’m leaving for London in an hour.”

John’s head snapped up, “What?!”  Fear settled in his chest and he cursed himself for acting like an anxious teenager with a crush.

“I’ve been away too long as it is,” Mycroft said.  “I’m in France, in case you’re interested.”

“Sorry?” John said. 

“I’m in France, in the Riviera, meeting with a friend from Saudi Arabia.”

John frowned.  “Shouldn’t you come back with a bit of sun then?”

“No,” Mycroft said.  “The bad fortune of fair skinned Englishmen, I’m afraid.  Sun and I do not mix.” 

He seemed to be waiting for John to speak.  And when John didn’t, he said, “You’ll be fine here.  I have every confidence you and Sherlock will right yourselves and come to a mutually agreeable solution.”

 “Are you sure?” John hung his head. Because I’m not.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock heard John’s tread on the almost silent stairs.  He also heard the door to John’s room open, close, and then open again.

Knowing John’s stride, Sherlock knew precisely when he’d hear the soft tap on the door.  He also knew John would quietly open the door, not waiting for an invite, just in case Sherlock was asleep.

Keeping his eyes nearly closed, he watched as John approached the bed.  Ah.  John’s eyes flitted to the empty tea cup, the half-eaten Ploughman’s.  Sherlock felt a swell of pride in his chest as John ‘observed’ and deduced. 

“You said it would make me nauseous,” he intoned, causing John to start.

“I said it _might_ make you nauseous,” John corrected.  “But I’m glad to see you ate something.”

“Here for my evening meds?” Sherlock asked

“Obviously,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open scanning John’s face for the sarcasm he’d heard in his response.  The left side of his mouth twitched up.  “Do your worst,” he said.

“Closet?” John asked, walking toward it and opening the door.

“Nice deduction,” Sherlock said. “What gave it away?”

“The loo would be a bit too unhygienic,” John said, shrugging.  Within moments he was back at Sherlock’s bedside with his medical kits and the IV pole with a bag of fluids attached.  “Nice touch, the refrigeration unit in the closet.  Saves me from having to run downstairs and get the antibiotics.”

“We aim to please,” Sherlock said, his eyes closed.

A short laugh had him opening them, frowning. “What?”

“Did you really just say ‘you aim to please’?” John’s face looked joyous and Sherlock found he couldn’t look away.  “Seriously?  You? “

Sherlock mock pouted.  “I meant the estate.  Not me personally.” He narrowed his eyes.  “I haven’t changed that much.”

“Clearly,” John said, mimicking Sherlock’s tone.  He took a few minutes and studied Sherlock.  It went on long enough that Sherlock wondered if there was something amiss.  As he opened his mouth to ask if there was a problem, John asked, “Do you want to go ahead and change for the night?”

Sherlock felt his pulse spike for a moment, and he looked down at his suit clad body.  It really would be the logical thing to do.  He sighed. 

“Where are your things then?” John asked.  He turned and motioned to the closet. 

“Most likely they are in the same places your own clothes are,” he said.  “I believe we’ve both inherited new wardrobes.”

Within a few moments John was back with two sets of blue pyjamas. “Silk or linen?”

“Linen,” Sherlock said.

“When did you change to linen then?” John asked, heading back into the closet.

“As you can imagine, Saudi Arabia is rather a warm climate.  Linen and cotton are the most sensible choice for fabric.”  He stopped, frowned, then continued.  John was, after all, his doctor.  He should be aware of any related medical anomaly.  “I’ve been waking up in the night sweaty.  The linen has been a cooler option.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since I arrived at your parents.”

“And it hasn’t improved since you’ve been on the antibiotics?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

John frowned.  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

Sherlock sat up and allowed John help divest him of his suit jacket.  John carefully undid his buttons, and took particular care as he removed his ported arm from the sleeve of the shirt.

With annoying clinical precision, John helped him into the pajama top before moving away to allow Sherlock to undo his zips and wriggle out of his trousers.  John helped him get the pyjama bottoms on straight, pulling them up with a practiced hand, again, nothing but professional.

Sherlock watched as John put on his the gloves methodically going through the proper steps in readying the insertion of antibiotics into the saline solution, disinfecting the catheter in his arm and then open up the drip.  Careful, honorable, meticulous.  That was John.

After watching the flow for a few minutes, John double checked the connection in Sherlock’s arm he sat down in a stuffed cream and maroon pinstriped chair not far from the bed, seemingly sinking into the chair, and closed his eyes.

Sherlock’s pulse picked up as he remembered the moment he’d seen John enter the drawing room.  “John?” he called his voice pitched low.

“Hmmm,” John said, suppressing a sigh.

“You look very good in that suit,” Sherlock said.  He watched as John’s face colored.

“Ah, thank you,” John said, looking at his feet.  “Mycroft seems to know his fashion.”  When he looked back up his doctor’s mask was on.  “How are you feeling?”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said.  _God he was so sick of John playing ‘doctor’._

“Sorry?” John asked.

“Never mind,” Sherlock said.  He’d have flounced over on his other side, facing away from John had he had that much of the IV line available to him.  He didn’t.

Running his hand over his face, John stood.  “I’m going to go get out of this monkey suit,” he said.

“Come back,” Sherlock said. 

“Yes, Sherlock,” John said.  “I’ll be back to unhook you.”

“No,” Sherlock said.  “Now.  Please.”

John stopped at the door.  “Yeah,” he said, and then yawned deeply.  “Alright.  Give me a few minutes.  I’m going to catch Mycroft before he leaves.  I want the supplies here in case I have to lance that wound.”


	5. Chapter 5

“JOHN!”

John jerked awake, confused, disoriented, where was he again?  Sherlock’s room, yes.  The terribly uncomfortable chair.  “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was sitting straight up, chest heaving, eyes wild.  “John!”

“I’m here,” he said, rushing over.  “Are you okay?” He touched his shoulder.  “You’re covered in sweat!”

“Nightmare,” Sherlock said, shivering.

Using the back of his hand, John touched Sherlock’s cheeks, one after the other.  “Okay, you don’t feel feverish.”

“I said ‘nightmare’” Sherlock snarled.  But John knew it was more form than real nastiness.

“May I?” John said, already peeling back the sticky bedclothes.  Sherlock leaned back and John lifted his shirt and looked at the bandage; the tape loosened by the sweat which was still running down Sherlock.  “Come on,” he said, throwing the covers completely off Sherlock’s lanky frame.  “Let’s get you changed into something else.”

“Shower,” Sherlock said, voice low, trembling.

John felt a tightening in his stomach and had to swallow against his emotions.  It was so unlike Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock to talk so softly, to be so rattled, to be handled like a ragdoll.  “Come on,” he said, helping to untangle Sherlock’s feet from the sheets, on the floor and standing.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, yet swayed a bit, and did not push away when John put his arm around his waist and half guided him into the bathroom.

John turned on the shower, letting the water warm, then then methodically stripping Sherlock of the sodden pyjamas.

“I could have….” Sherlock began, and then trailed off.

“It’s fine,” John assured, keeping his eyes focused on the peeling bandage.  “I’m going to take this off.  It will need to be redressed anyway.” He said, as he pulled it off.   “I know you said ‘nightmare’ but I want to check it anyway.”

“Twice,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry?” John said, laying his hands around the perimeter, relaxing when the wound wasn’t any more inflamed than it had been, and the worrisome center thankfully was still closed as well.

“I said ‘nightmare’. Twice,” Sherlock said.

John looked up sharply.  Sherlock’s eyes were vacant, staring across the room seemingly centered on nothing.  Keeping a hand on Sherlock’s slender waist he opened the shower door.  “Get in before you catch your death, and watch the catheter in your arm.”

“Old wives’ tale,” Sherlock said, but moved into the shower.

“The catheter?” John asked.

“Don’t be dense,” Sherlock said.

John permitted himself a small smile.  _This_ sounded more like the man he’d known.  “’Denser than usual’, don’t you mean?”

“You said it,” Sherlock said as John closed the door behind him.

John chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll go get you some things and see what I can do about the bed.” He looked more closely at Sherlock’s face now that he was being encased in steam.  “You’ll be alright?”

Sherlock just nodded.

After one last concerned look, John turned away and stopped short to find Mrs. Meadows in the bedroom, already clearing the linen away.  “Hello.”

“Dr. Watson,” she said.

“I’m sorry if we disturbed you,” John said, hesitating, wondering if he should offer to assist her in remaking the bed.  “May I?” he said, ingrained politeness would have made his mother proud.

“Thank you, but no,” she said, dropping the soiled linen in a pile by the door.  “And you didn’t disturb me at all,” she said.  “In fact, please don’t hesitate to ring if you need me in future.”

John smiled a tight smile.  “It’s 3am,” he said.  “You must sleep sometime.”

She turned from gathering up the neatly piled clean linen she’d laid on the bench at the end of the bed.  Looking him up and down she smiled.  “I could say the same for you,” she said.  “Haven’t been to bed at all, have you?”

John reached up, rubbing his sore neck.  He’d gotten a crick in it while dozing in the chair.  Clearing his throat, John looked away: she was right of course.  “I ‘er….need to get Sherlock some dry clothes.” He hurried into the closet.

When he returned Mrs. Meadows was just finishing precision folding on the corners of the bed like he hadn’t seen since being in the military.  “Would you like me to get you some tea?” she asked.

“Ah, no,” he said, but really meant yes.

“I’ll bring some back up when I return for the dishes,” she said.

“They can wait, surely,” John said.  “Or I’ll bring them down in a tick, if you’d just turn the kettle on.”

“Now Dr. Watson,” she said, again smiling.  “You take care of your patient, and I’ll be back with tea.”

“John?” he heard from the bathroom.

“Ah,” he said, smiling apologetically and nodding in acknowledgment before heading into the bathroom to attend to his ‘patient’.

 It didn’t take long for John to help get Sherlock sorted: dried off, in new pyjama’s, hair toweled dry.  He couldn’t help but smile as it reverted to its natural curls.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John cocked his head and took in the man who’d been gone from him for long.  “I was looking at your hair.”

“What about it?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit more like himself.

“Do you have product for it?”

 _“Product?”_ Sherlock said as if spitting out something vile-tasting.  “What are you accusing me off exactly?”

John wrinkled his brow in confusion and then it smoothed out as he recalled a conversation between the younger versions of them in Bart’s Lab.  He searched Sherlock’s face.  He saw the tiniest quirk of Sherlock’s mouth.  “Ah….well, if you can joke about Moriarty I guess you’re healing.”

“Healing?” Sherlock asked.  “What does – oh, never mind.  Can I go back to bed now?” he said, his voice a step away from a whinge.  Yet he stopped about halfway to the door.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

In a decided sulk Sherlock said, “ _Product.”_ And turned back to open a drawer in the vanity. “For my hair,” he said.

John just shook his head.  “If it weren’t 3.30 in the morning, I’d probably be enjoying this more.”  He turned to go.  “I’ll just step out to let you have your ‘moment’ with your ‘product’.  When you’re finished I’ll redress the wound.”

Mrs. Meadows stepped back into the room with a tray of tea items at the same time John did.

“Oh you’re an angel, Mrs. Meadows.” He rubbed his hands together in a tired sort of glee.  “Caffeine this hour, probably not a good idea,” he said, already reaching for the pot as she slid it into the small nook matching the one in John’s room.  “But never mind.”

“Tomorrow I’ll have the alcoves in your rooms outfitted with instant tea and coffee,” she said.  “My apologies, we should have had it when you arrived.”

But John wasn’t listening.  He was inhaling a beautiful Breakfast Tea, his eyes closed in appreciation.  Whatever this was he wouldn’t mind having a stash of it.  It was even better than what Mycroft had at his parents’ house.

“Do you need anything else?” Mrs. Meadows asked.

John almost jumped.  “I’m so sorry.  Of course not, Mrs. Meadows.  Please get some sleep.”

“Nanny,” Sherlock’s voice called from the door.

John’s breath caught in his throat and suddenly he could see a tiny Sherlock as Mrs. Meadows crossed to him.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said.

She put her arm around his Sherlock’s back, guiding him to the bed.

John blinked.  

“No, darling,” she said, her voice low, a comforting murmur.  “You never disturb me.”  She stayed with him until he was seated on the bed.  “You ring the next time you need me, okay?”

“John was here,” Sherlock said, sounding very sleepy.

“Yes,” she said.  “Thankfully he was.  But Dr. Watson needed a hand as well, Sherlock.” She cupped his chin.  “You always were more than a handful, my pet.”

John felt like he was locked in some tableau of the past.  Mycroft had said he’d have the opportunity to see how and where Sherlock was raised, but at the moment he felt like a voyeur.  He’d never seen anyone touch Sherlock with so much care.  And he’d never seen Sherlock accept anyone’s touch.  Again, he was reminded of Mrs. Hudson, and how she was the only person with whom he’d ever seen Sherlock be affectionate with.  It felt wrong to see Sherlock vulnerable, needing someone, being handled like a child.

Stepping away, to give them a moment, John ducked into the closet for his medical supplies to redo the bandage.  He also rummaged through the built in drawers until he found thick wool socks.

Mrs. Meadows was collecting the remains of Sherlock’s Ploughman when he stepped back out. “If you need anything further, Dr. Watson, please don’t hesitate to ring me.”

John nodded and thanked her again.

Turning back to Sherlock he sat the gauze pads and tape on the bedside table and pulled the covers down.  When John pulled them off completely, Sherlock roused.  “What are you doing?” he asked voice blurry.

“Socks,” John said, “Your feet will get cold.”  He cupped Sherlock’s left heel and pulled on a sock carefully.  He felt Sherlock shiver.  “Almost done,” he said, moving to the right foot.  Once the second sock was secured, he pulled the duvet up over Sherlock’s legs, stopping at his hips.

He picked up the gloves and put them on before tugging Sherlock’s pyjamas aside so he could work.  The angry red tendrils of infection were smaller, shrinking back toward the epicenter of the wound.  The entire area looked better than it had when he’d put Sherlock to bed earlier.  Hopefully having Mycroft courier up supplies for an ad hoc surgery had been for naught.

When he was done, Sherlock’s eyes, replete with dark blue-purple smudges, were closed.   As John peeled off the gloves he wondered what it was that had caused Sherlock’s nightmare.  He had just turned to put the used supplies in the bin when Sherlock spoke.

“Don’t go,” he said.

Swallowing a groan of exhaustion, John hung his head.  “Okay.  But only if you promise me that you’ll get some sleep?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still closed.

Backtracking through the suite, John turned off all the lights.  The bedside clock said it was 4.23am and John gave it up for a lost night.  It wouldn’t be the first he’d had tending patients or for tearing along after Sherlock Holmes, for that matter.

 

~ooOoo~

“John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded drained, rusty.

“Right here,” John ground out, rousing himself, limbs feeling heavier than cement, his eyes so gritty they were painful.

“Go to bed, John,” Sherlock said.

Stretching his back, John half covered a yawn as he tried to invigorate himself.  “No point now,” he said.  It was still amazing to see Sherlock alive.  He looked so heart-breakingly young with his shorn hair.

“You’re staring at my hair,” Sherlock said.

“I hate it,” John said.

Eyes widening like saucers, Sherlock looked shocked.  “I beg your pardon?”

John chuckled.  “You’ll be alright for a while?”

Affronted, Sherlock sniffed.  “Don’t be absurd.  Of course I will.”

John eyed him, holding his tongue instead of reminding him that for several hours during the night he hadn’t been alright at all.  “Shall I send up tea?”

Sherlock shook his head, pushed back the covers, as if to get up, then stopped abruptly when he saw the wool socks.  “Thank you,” he said.

John followed his line of sight.  “You’re welcome.”

He'd just reached the door when he heard Sherlock murmur, “Not just for the socks.”

Freezing in place, John turned and looked over his shoulder.  Yep.  Still amazing that they were here and Sherlock was alive.  And someone might still be trying to kill him.   Still.  “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

~ooOoo~

 

Chapter Break

 

After a hot shower, John contemplated his new wardrobe and settled on jeans and a black jumper: cashmere he expected.  He’d found casual shoes and once dressed he found his way downstairs.  The house was quiet and as he wandered back toward the kitchen.

Rounding the corner, he saw Mrs. Carlisle coming up from a door he hadn’t noticed the evening before.

“Hello,” he said.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she said.  “Fancy a cup of tea?  I heard you were up most of the night with His Nibs.  I’ll cook you a proper breakfast to get your strength back.

Working hard to hide a chuckle, John smiled.  “That would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble. And it’s John, please.”

“Oh no.  It’s no trouble at all.  But I’m afraid I’d feel wrong calling you by your given name.”

Perplexed, but holding his tongue, he glanced around the kitchen.  Decorated in a French Provincial style the cream colored cabinetry had to completely custom made. Well they would be, wouldn’t they? He chided himself.

As he saw no sign of normal appliances, save the cook top, John assumed the usual kitchen necessities were all hidden behind the cabinets.  The hood over the stove was painted a warm green, with what appeared to be a hand painted decorative design on it, which matched the one on the ceiling, surrounding the two chandeliers centered over the center island.  The island itself was massive.  With its white and black granite top the island was large enough to comfortably seat eight people. 

Glancing back at the door Mrs. Carlisle had appeared through he thought he saw a glimpse of stairs.  Downstairs to the servants’ area? No doubt.

“You’re welcome to have a seat in the dining room, where we served you last night,” Mrs. Carlisle said, already pouring him a cup of tea.  “Milk?”

“Ah, yes please,” John said.  “Is it alright if I eat here?”  He nodded toward a small alcove, outfitted with a built in seating and a small custom made table.  It looked out a bay window where John could see sunlight streaming down on dewy variegated Hosta.

“Whatever you like,” Mrs. Carlisle said.  She handed him the cup of tea.  “Now.  How do you like your eggs?”

As Mrs. Carlisle cooked she chatted, asking about food preferences, discussing what produce was in season, about the never ending rain, even though the sun was currently shining, how she hoped to retire to Menorca.  

All that was required from John was an occasional hum of acknowledgement.  By the time he was pushing away from the table after finishing toast and homemade black current jam he felt like he knew everything about her. 

She’d told stories about the boys: Sherlock tagging after Mycroft, his knees always skinned, shirt untucked, dirty elbows and riotous curls always in disarray.  “His Nibs was always a handful,” she said.  “I don’t know how Mrs. Meadows kept up with him.”

“It’s hard to imagine him that young and wreaking havoc.” John said, grinning.  “Well, let me rephrase: I can imagine him wreaking havoc, just not in short pants.  I assume there are pictures around here somewhere?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Carlisle said, her laughter was light, caring.  “I’m sure Mrs. Meadows can help you there.”  She turned leaned against the counter, seemingly taking his measure.  “He ran us ragged until Master Mycroft left for school.  Even tried his own mother’s nerves and she was like a Lioness about His Nibs.  No one dared say a word against him.”  She picked up a tea towel and began wiping down the marble counter. 

“What happened when Mycroft went to school?”

“Oh,” she said, continuing to wipe circles on the spotless counter.  “Those were bad days.  His Nibs was heartbroken when Master Mycroft went to school.  He was never the same.”

A clearing throat caused both of them to jerk toward the sound.  Mrs. Meadows stood in the door separating the kitchen from the hallway, her mouth set in a line of disapproval.  “I’m sure there is some stocking that needs to be tended to below quarters,” she said to Mrs. Carlisle.  “We need to make sure we can feed all of the mouths on the estate.  Please see to it.”

“Of course,” the other woman said, hurriedly hanging up the cloth and then scooting toward the stairs John had spied earlier.

Mrs. Meadows smiled, albeit a bit painfully, at John.  “Can I get you more tea?” she asked.

“Oh no,” John said, running his hand over his stomach.  “One more drop and I’d burst.”

“Very well,” she said.  “Would you like the tour of the house?  I’d be happy to show you around.”

John spent the next hour with his jaw almost permanently ajar.  He hadn’t seen much when they’d arrived, not really.  Now he could see the true extent of the Holmes heritage.  When he’d said Downton Abbey he hadn’t been far off the mark. 

He’d stopped short when they entered the library.  There were more books than he’d ever seen in one place before – well, The Royal Library, excluded.  Floor to ceiling with a ladder and a ‘2nd floor’ with a catwalk on three of the walls.  The exterior facing wall was almost exclusively made up of windows.  Streams of light illuminating the room beautifully.  “Sherlock must have loved it here.”

“He was a little monkey, that one,” Mrs. Meadows said, a faraway look in her eye.  “We tried to lock him out; worried he would climb up and fall from the balcony.”  She shook her head.  “But there was no keeping him out of anywhere he wanted in.”

John was touched by the love she saw written on her face.  He felt his heart swell and wondered if Sherlock knew how much she cared.

The next room was Sherlock’s father’s study.  The walls were a dark green; the furniture and crown molding were mahogany.  Over the marble fireplace was a portrait.  It had to be Sherlock’s mother.  There was no one else in the world it could be.  She was magnificent.

“Striking, isn’t she?” Mrs. Meadows asked, turning to face him.

“Wow,” John said.  “Just wow.”  He glanced at Mrs. Meadows. 

“He looks just like her, doesn’t he?”

“What a waste of all that beauty," John said.  "Sherlock should have been a girl.”

A stricken look came over her but her features smoothed almost immediately to politeness.  “I’m afraid I can’t quite agree with you,” she said.

Before John could answer there was a discreet knock and they both turned to find a young woman, probably late 20s or early 30s in the doorway.  She was dressed in a plain black trousers and the same blue pinstripe double breasted tunic, made exactly like Mrs. Meadows’ dress.  Oh.  Uniforms. 

“Come in, Katie,” Mrs. Meadows said.  

As she walked the four strides to them, John was trying to remember if Mrs. Carlisle had on the same dress.  Perhaps, yes, underneath her apron.

“Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Meadows said, motioning toward the very tanned young woman.  “This is Katie.  She is my assistant.  She’s just returning from holiday.”

John smiled, and reached out his hand.  “Ah, lovely.  Nice to meet you.”

“You too, sir,” she said, her voice demur, eyes swept down as if in deference.

“Have a nice holiday then?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir,” she said. 

He dipped his head, trying to catch her eye. “It looks like you were someplace warm and sunny.”

“Yes, Dr. Watson,” she said, finally looking up and smiling shyly.  “Tenerife.

“Very nice,” he said.  “Very nice indeed.”

“Katie,” Mrs. Meadows said.  “I will be occupied for the next half hour.  Please check in with Mrs. Carlisle.  I daresay she’ll need some assistance.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said and then smiled at John.  “It is very nice to meet you.  Please let me know if I can make your stay here more comfortable.”

There was a moment where John looked at her and thought, ‘there was a time…..’ He swung back to the portrait of Mrs. Holmes’ finding it odd to see features he knew so well in a feminine form – and, knew his days of chasing women were over. 

One way or the other there was no one for him but that infuriating man upstairs.  The man who was at current his patient and therefore it was completely inappropriate to be thinking of him in any other terms. _Or is that an easy façade to hide behind?  Professional mask coolly in place so as to not have to deal with the angry roil of emotions in his gut?_   his inner Sherlock asked.  

Mrs. Meadows smiled and John wondered if she could see the war he was waging internally. 

They finished the rest of the ground floor without further interruption. 

At the base of the stairs, John paused.

“Perhaps you’d like to finish at a later time?” she asked.

“I think I should perhaps check on my patient.  He doesn’t usually sleep this much.” He frowned.  “Or at least he didn’t used to.”

“I’ll wait here,” she said.

John took the stairs slowly, his body aching with the need for sleep.  At Sherlock’s bedroom he knocked softly and hearing no reply opened the door and stuck his head in, “Sherlock?”

Walking in he saw Sherlock was curled up in a foetal position, but appeared to be resting comfortably, no outward signs of stress.   He let himself back out and rejoined Mrs. Meadows.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I would like to complete the tour another time.  I am a bit tired.”

“Of course,” she said.  “May I get you anything?”

“Ah, no,” he said.  “I think I’ll just go up and get a bit of sleep.”

“Please call if you need anything.”

“Will do,” he lied.

The second trip up the stairs was harder than the first, and John’s eyes were blurry with fatigue by the time he entered his room.  Stripping quickly, he laid the clothes over the chair.  A groan escaped his lips as he slipped into comfortable bed, the mattress dipping down with his weight.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sher-LOCK!” John screamed.

Sherlock winced, but held his breath, not moving, perched on the end of John’s bed. As John thrashed in the covers, Sherlock began a constant murmuring of “John.”

Sherlock had been pulled from the quiet reverie of his mind by John’s voice: terrified, yelling.  When he’d entered the room it was to an even worse noise to hear, whimpering.  Carefully, he’d perched himself on the bed, watching as John wrestled with unknown demons.

Continuing his litany of John’s name, Sherlock questioned, well: everything.  Had it all been for naught?  He’d kept John alive but damaged him further, was that it?  Closing his eyes Sherlock saw the flash of the knife, blood: his, hundreds of others, a bullet blowing John’s head apart.

Gasping he opened his eyes just as John sat up straight.  “Sherlock!” he cried once more, awake, eyes wide, horror filled.

“Here,” Sherlock said.  “Look at me.”

John did.  He blinked.  “Nightmare?” he said, his pulse still elevated from the look of it.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Of course,” John said.  He ran his hand over his face.  “Christ.  We’re quite the pair.”

“Are we?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head to one side.

Coloring, John looked away.  “I mean now we’re both having nightmares.”

“Not surprising, really,” Sherlock said, then schooled his features into blankness. 

John peered at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. 

Shaking his head, as if trying to clear cobwebs, John asked.  “What time is it?”

“Half six.”

“Really?” John asked.  “Time for dinner soon.”

“I ate around four,” Sherlock said, holding John’s gaze as he saw him trying to decide if Sherlock was lying or not.”

“Okay,” he said finally. 

“Have a tray brought up,” Sherlock said.  “You can eat while you’re running the antibiotics.” 

He stood, and turned to look back at John.  It was still as if there was a pane of glass between them.  An unbreakable barrier keeping him from being able to touch John.  And whenever John touched him it was the cool touch of a professional.  Not that of a friend, let alone a potential lover.  Experienced or not, Sherlock knew the difference.

 

~ooOoo~

The next few days fell into a familiar routine: Sherlock sleeping almost twenty hours a day, barely eating, disquietingly calm.  He showed no sign of being bored or frustrated with being basically bedridden, though that was his choice.  John had, in fact, been encouraging him to get up, stir about.  Find a book to read from his family’s vast collection.

While he hadn’t out and out said no, he’d made no move.  John had even brought up several books that in the past would have interested him: a volume on forensic anthropology, a history of the usage of garroting in crimes in the 1800’s and a biography of Jeffrey Dahmer, the American serial-killer.

Sherlock had murmured a ‘thank you’ but had not touched them as far as John could tell.

For himself, John knocked about the various rooms downstairs.  He found he liked the lounge where apparently Mrs. Holmes liked to spend her time.  The cathedral windows spanned the ivory walls.  The furniture was comfortable, less imposing, more inviting than in some other rooms on the floor.  He’d tried reading books, several in fact, but John just couldn’t get around the conflicting mass of feelings he had about Sherlock. Around and around it went in his head.

_‘Round and round the garden like a teddy bear’_

John slammed his fist into an offending pillow on the divan.

“We do have a gym, you know.”

Jumping, John turned bright red, “Mrs. Meadows, I’m so sorry,” he said.

She smiled.  “No need to apologize.  But we really do.  Outfitted with a punching bag or two.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.  “Sherlock has quite the developed pugilist skills.”

He frowned.  “Seriously?”

Mrs. Meadows smiled.  “Should we finish the tour we began the other day?”

“I’m not sure I’m any less tired than I was then,” he muttered under his breath.  Ever since he’d awoken from the nightmare to find Sherlock on the edge of his bed, he’d purposely tried to keep from having another, which basically meant he wasn’t getting the deep REM sleep he needed.

Aloud he said, “That would be lovely.”

They’d entered the great hall when John stopped at the door to Sherlock’s dad’s study.  “May we?” he asked.

Mrs. Meadows nodded and John opened the door, stepping inside, wanting to see the portrait of Mrs. Holmes again.

“I’ve thought about what I said the other day, Mrs. Meadows,” he said.  “About all that beauty being wasted on Sherlock.”  John watched as her body stiffened.  He rushed ahead.  “The thing is: I wouldn’t change him and the beauty isn’t wasted.”

He cleared his throat and looked around, eyes landing on the heavy mahogany desk, until he could put his thoughts into words.  “I can see you care a great deal about Sherlock.”

“Yes,” she said, a hint of warning in her tone, John reckoned.

“I care about him too.  He was my best friend.”  John let the words stand.  They said so much, and yet didn’t quite get to the truth.

“You say ‘was,’ past tense,” she said, her tone gentle.

“I only found out he was alive less not ten days ago,” he said.  “It’s a lot to process.”

“Yes,” she said.  “It is.”

John nodded toward the portrait of Mrs. Holmes.  “She is beautiful.”  He made sure he was holding Mrs. Meadows’ gaze when he said.  “And I wanted to be clear with you: So is Sherlock.  Beautiful, I mean.  I wouldn’t change a thing about him.”

He watched the line of her body relax the tiniest bit.  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Dr. Watson.  Very few people have ever taken that position.”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment.  “It seems to be hard for you: him being back.”

John’s eyes flew up to meet hers. “It is,” he said, voice but a whisper.  “It is very hard.”  He swallowed.  “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Mrs. Meadows smiled, and John fancied he saw the understanding in her face. 

“Shall we carry on with the tour?” she asked.

He nodded, following her as they headed out of the room.  He stopped, turned to look at the portrait one last time, and then clicked the door closed behind him.

 

The second floor housed the elder Holmes’ suites and a small room situated between them.  Mrs. Holmes had turned into some sort of studio.  “She used to dance,” Mrs. Meadows said as they stood in the door, the far wall covered in floor to ceiling mirrors with a balustrade.  The wooden floors were polished and had no covering at all.

“Oh?” John asked.

“Ballet,” Mrs. Meadows said.

“Ah,” John said.

The third floor was a huge open space.  “This was where the boys were tutored until they entered primary school.”

John cocked his head, trying to imagine a young Sherlock learning….well, anything really.  John would have sworn Sherlock had been born knowing the contents of the universe and then spent the last 35+ years erasing the boring bits.

Mrs. Meadows walked toward the other end of the studio.  “We’ll take this exit,” she said.  “This opens into the nursery. Beyond that are the staff quarters, with the Nanny and tutors on this floor.”

“So you were his Nanny?”

“Yes,” she said. 

John could understand her discretion but still wished she’d tell him more.  But he held his tongue as he followed her, through the doorway at the far end.  He was surprised to see the nursery still intact.

“We have used it over the years for visitors with children,” she said.  “But little has changed.”

The room was decorated in a soothing blue-grey and silver.  The baby cot was burnished silver, the bedding silky grey.  The walls were two toned, separated by a chair rail, the darker grey on the bottom, a lighter silvery hue on the top.  White French panels broke up the wall space and brightened the room. 

The sun streamed through a skylight which was fitted with a modern shade which looked to be able to open and close remotely.

There was a chandelier was overhead and smaller lamps placed around the room strategically.  There was a rocker, a single bed on the other side, with matching bedding. 

Perhaps the most striking thing in the room was an over the top grey wrought iron cradle draped in white material, pooling to the ground at its head.

It was warm here and John yawned.

“We can finish another time,” Mrs. Meadows suggested.

John blushed.  “My apologies.  I’ve not been sleeping well these last few nights.”

“Is there something I can get for you?  Change something in the room to help you sleep?” she said. 

“No,” he assured her. “The room is fine.”

“Shall I escort you back downstairs, then?” she asked.  “We can finish the rest of the tour after you’ve rested.”

He turned to go, but then stopped.  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to stay here for a bit.  The rocking chair looks inviting.”

“Feel free to use the bed, if you’d like,” Mrs. Meadows said.  “I can keep an eye on Sherlock for you so you can get a bit of a nap in.”

John chuckled.  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

She nodded and pointed to the intercom near the bed.  “You buzz if you need anything.”

“Will do,” he said.

When she was gone, he sat down in the wooden rocker, and let the history of the room settle around him.  Trying to conjure up a picture of a tiny Sherlock lying in the cradle made him smile.   He imagined him as a baby, then a toddler who showed no sign of speaking.  It must have worried his family, wondering if he was normal.  John chuckled: they had no idea.  No one could be ready for a child who had never spoken a word suddenly speaking in full sentences in English _and_ Spanish after five years of silence.

John let his eyes close and he imagined he could smell talc, baby wipes and baby oil, all as if they’d been used just yesterday.  He wished he could have seen Sherlock in short breeches.  So posh.  Growing up in such a different world than John had.  Even as a child Sherlock had been otherworldly.  John swallowed against emotion as he silently thanked the heavens that Sherlock had had such a champion in Mrs. Meadows.

His head jerked when he heard his name being called.  It was far away, but still, the velvet baritone sounded frantic and John sprang from the chair, almost tripping over his new leather shoes. He stopped, trying to get his bearings, head swinging from doorway to doorway, suddenly unsure of which door they’d come in and from where Sherlock was calling.

“JOHN!”

His head felt like it was full of cotton wool as he tried to recall their steps. 

“JOHN!!”

That was enough to snap John completely awake, and he sped toward the door he and Mrs. Meadows had come through earlier, taking the length of the generously sized nursery in three strides. 

Thundering footsteps raced up the stairs.

“Nursery!” he heard a woman – Mrs. Meadows – presumably.  “Sherlock!  He’s in the nursery.”

And there he was, all 6 foot plus of him, barely dressed, only his thin pajama bottoms riding low on his hips as he crossed the room.  Those long legs eating up the length of the dormer school room.

John had to close his eyes to look away from the divots in Sherlock’s lean form where his external oblique muscles naturally drew his line of sight: south, to places best not thought about at the moment.

He was unprepared to be smothered in Sherlock’s embrace, but Sherlock held on, kept them upright. John wrapped his own arms around him to keep from toppling over.

“You were dead,” Sherlock said, breathing into John’s hair.  “You were dead.”

“Hey, hey,” John soothed.  “It was just a dream,” he said.  He tried to pull back so he could look at Sherlock but he was held firm.

Mrs. Meadows peeked around Sherlock and she caught John’s eye.  “I’ll bring up some tea and biscuits.”

John gave her a nod and tried again to pull back.  “Sherl- come on,” he said. “It was just a dream.”

“Nightmare,” Sherlock said, still not releasing John.

“Nightmare then,” John replied.  “Come on.  Let’s sit down.”  He made a failed attempt to move Sherlock toward the bed.  “Sherlock,” he said his tone a bit firmer.  “You’re alright.”  This time when he tried to sway them Sherlock came with, firmly attached as if he would never let go.  Trying to steer Sherlock down, John let out an “umph” as he was suddenly on his back, Sherlock curled around him. 

“You were dead,” he intoned.  “There was so much blood.”

Taking in a deep breath, John let himself enjoy the warmth, the heat of Sherlock’s body.  It felt a little bit like being wrapped in a cocoon. 

“So much blood, John,” Sherlock said again.

John let out a small chuckle.  “I know that dream,” he said, and while he wasn’t surprised at the stab of pain and confusion, he was frustrated with himself. There could be little more that would convince him that Sherlock was very much alive if being smothered by the man – almost naked to boot – didn’t do it.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.  His voice was ragged.  He sounded more scared than he had when they’d been in Dartmoor.

A little piece of ice that had sat in the bottom of his stomach ever since he watched Sherlock fall to his ‘death’ melted.   John cupped Sherlock’s neck and ran a soothing arm down his back.  “I know.”

“Budge over,” John said, trying to maneuver Sherlock off him enough he could breathe easier.  This wasn’t a lover’s embrace. It was a child’s desperate clinging of limbs, jumping into his parents arms. A child finally awake after running what would seem like literal miles in an unending dream, chased by an unspeakable horror.

“No,” Sherlock said, voice petulant.

John still in surprise, and glanced up.  “Seriously?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Meadows will be back shortly,” John said.  “Do you want her to see us like this?”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock said.

Christ!  John really was dealing with a five year old.  He relaxed into the bed, giving up for the moment.  Truthfully?  He could be asleep within moments. 

He started when he heard china rattling. He looked up into the caring eyes of Mrs. Meadows.  “I’ll just leave the tea here.”  She sat the tray down on top of the book case full of children’s books and the odd plush toy.  “Now ring the bell if you need a refresh.  And if he stays awake, I’ve brought his favorite ginger biscuits.”

“Thank you, Nanny,” Sherlock mumbled burrowing his head underneath John’s chin, nose buried in the hollow of his neck, lips gently moving against already too sensitized skin.

John knew Sherlock was just moments from sleep.  He opened his mouth, but before he could voice the question, Mrs. Meadow was crossing to the cedar chest at the end of the bed.  From within she pulled out a baby blue angora throw seemingly standard in all bedrooms.  With quick movements, she unfolded it, snapping it gently to its full size carefully laid it over Sherlock, and by default, him.  The cedar scent wafted over them, and before long before Sherlock’s breathing changed into that of slumber.  Giving it up as a lost cause, John didn’t even try to fight being pulled under.


	7. Chapter 7

Slowly the world came back into focus.  The lighting from the skylight told Sherlock it was late afternoon.  The warmth of John’s body tucked around him like a puzzle piece felt like home.  Even more than the bed he’d laid on a child, tucked into Nanny’s arm as she read to him.  More so than the room downstairs where he’d moved after outgrowing the nursery.  He breathed in deeply, head in the straw colored hair of the man in his arms.

Why wasn’t this enough? 

Sherlock had watched John struggle ever since they’d been reunited at the Watson home.  Emotions ravaged his face: shock, anger, guilt, desire and the one that made Sherlock’s stomach clench: hurt.

He might not feel things the way other people did but he understood that the ‘hurt’ could very well be the thing that drove John away.

Part of him railed at the knowledge: John knew it had been necessary. Sherlock could even see the understanding on John’s face.   But behind the understanding was that haunting hurt. 

He felt the fluttering of eyelashes on his neck and felt John stir. 

“You’re awake,” John said.

Sherlock hummed in answer.

John stretched moving away from Sherlock as he arched his back.

Having none of that, Sherlock pulled him back.  “Mine,” he said.

A startled laugh escaped John’s mouth.  “Sorry?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock said, smiling as he looked down, meeting confused but amused eyes.

“I’m not a teddy bear, Sherlock,” John said.  “You can’t clamp on and cuddle me to death.”

Sherlock’s brow rose.  “I believe I can.  And I did.”

John laughed and his body relaxed.  “I guess you did at that.”  His face turned serious.  “How are you?  No more bad dreams?”

“Nightmares,” Sherlock absently answered, looking over John’s shoulder now.

His old pram had been converted to storage for plush toys.  Just sticking up enough so he could see the head was his old teddy bear: beige with warm brown eyes.  He looked back down.  So that was it, was it?  A transference of sentiment for his favorite toy, rubbed almost bare of his original fur? So bare in fact that he was a fantastic candidate for the next ‘Velveteen Rabbit’ the one childhood story Sherlock had allowed himself to remember.  The one he’d begged Nanny to read until they could both recite it cover to cover.

Had John become his Velveteen Rabbit?

“What happened, Sherlock?” John said.  His voice was pitched low, but Sherlock heard the concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”  He let out a long breath.  “The dream?” He paused.   “Or any of it?”

Sherlock looked down into the face of a soldier, a doctor, his friend.  Sherlock let the cool mask he normally wore slip away and held John’s gaze.

While John would never exhibit the level of deduction Sherlock did, he was more intelligent than most.  He’d studied at Sherlock’s hand for more than two years.  Now Sherlock would discover just how far his tutelage took the one and only person who’d ever cared enough to just accept Sherlock.  At least until Sherlock had left him in order to protect him.

Part of his mind detached, watching as John searched, eyes flicking back and forth, taking in, Sherlock knew not what, but whatever John saw, it hurt him.  His eyes tightened, brow furrowed, and his thin lips all but disappeared. 

But Sherlock did not flinch.  He let John see everything.  And as John drunk it all he Sherlock knew John understood.  He’d understood the six inch cockroaches Sherlock endured in South America, the filth and the stench of Dharavi Slum in Mumbai where running water was but a longed for luxury. 

In his eyes, he knew John had seen and understood the men he’d put a bullet in; the men he’d conveniently handed over to local law enforcement, even it if meant he’d had to commit the crime himself in order to land the bastards in custody. 

Without knowing the particulars Sherlock knew John could understand the two men he’d had to kill with a knife.  It was not as easy as he’d always assumed it would be: up close, staring into a person’s eyes the hot shower of blood spraying over Sherlock, rooted to the spot, watching as their lives drained away. 

He’d told himself it was nothing to him.  These criminals were a threat to the people he had to protect.  No one else in _his_ world would be lost in this maniacal battle between the now dead Moriarty and him.  All because Sherlock had failed to understand that there wasn’t a single shred of humanity in Moriarty. 

Somewhere deep in his psyche he knew he had thrown around the word ‘sociopath’ as a shield, keeping people away and locking down his own emotions as best he could: particularly those involving sentiment.

Too late he’d comprehended what it was to have caught the interest of the so called ‘consulting criminal’ and what damage the _real_ sociopath would do when Sherlock refused to join him.

Reaching up, John laced his hands into the short hairs on Sherlock’s neck, shifting him until his head rested comfortably against John’s neck.  “It’s okay,” he said.  “I understand.”

Sherlock released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and sank into John. 

~ooOoo~

The tinkling of china brought John awake.  The light from overhead was waning and he wondered what time it was.

Mrs. Meadows was by the bookcase, switching out the teapot.

“Erm…” John began and had to swallow, his voice affected by his earlier tears.  “Hello,” he said.  “Sorry, can you tell me what time it is?”

“It’s gone six,” she said, her voice quiet.  “What time would you like dinner?”

John tried to remember when last he’d eaten when Mrs. Meadows spoke again.  “You both missed lunch.  And Sherlock hasn’t eaten since last night.”

Groaning, John tried to wriggle out of from under Sherlock.  But a hand like a vise grip shot out, holding him. 

“Mine,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” John said, embarrassed and pleased at the same time.  “Mrs. Meadows has just brought us up tea and is asking what time we’d like dinner.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Meadows met John’s eyes and they exchanged an empathetic look.  “I’m not really interested in what you want, Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock jerked up as if shot.  “I beg your pardon?” he turned his head.  “Hello Nanny.”  Then back to John.  “What do you mean?”

Taking the opportunity, John sat up and swung his legs out bed.  “I mean: you’re eating dinner.”  He looked at Mrs. Meadows.  “Is there something light on the menu?”

“Mrs. Carlisle has prepared an Italian Wedding soup.”

“That is just the trick,” John said, pleased to have a co-conspirator in Mrs. Meadows.  “Tea Sherlock?”

A ‘hurumph’ was heard from the bed as Sherlock pulled the throw up over his head after throwing himself back down.  John found himself grinning; here was a peek of the man he’d once lived with.

“I trust you can find your way back to your rooms?” Mrs. Meadows asked.  “And dinner at 7pm?  We can do earlier tonight as you’ve missed your mid-day meal.”

John agreed as he fixed Sherlock’s tea.  Crossing back to the single he sat down and nudged the lump.  “Here,” he said.  “Take it so I can have mine.”

With a minimum of fussing Sherlock turned, stared at John, pushed himself up and took the tea.

John moved back to the bookcase and fixed his tea and grabbed three biscuits.  “I hear these are your favorites.”

Sherlock took the biscuit and bit into it.

“You’re sleeping a lot, Sherlock,” John said.  “Why’s that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “You used to complain when I didn’t sleep.  Now you’re complaining that I’m sleeping too much.”

“I’m not complaining,” John corrected.  “I’m asking what’s behind it.”

“I’ll assume I’m catching up on all the years I didn’t get the proscribed 8 hours per night.”

John looked down into his tea, mulling over the answer.  Or lack thereof. 

“Where’s your mobile?”

After popping the remaining portion of the lemon ginger biscuit into his mouth and swallowing Sherlock asked, “Why?  Do you need to use it?”

“No,” John said.  “It just occurred to me I hadn’t seen you with it.”

“Well no, John, you haven’t,” Sherlock said his tone mocking.  “As you just pointed out I’ve been sleeping.  Can’t really text and sleep now can I?”

John swallowed back a smart ass answer and instead asked, “So it’s downstairs in your room then?”

Sherlock sighed.  “Do you need a phone or not?”

“Mycroft has mine,” John said.

“Well there you are,” Sherlock said.  “I handed over mine as well.”

John turned and looked at Sherlock, really looked at him.  “What?  And you have no replacement?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Seriously?” John said, concerned.  “That’s not the Sherlock I know.”

“I’m not the Sherlock you knew,” he said, suddenly very interested in the contents of his teacup.

John had no idea what to say.  And he couldn’t say why that sentence made him swallow emotion gathering in his throat.  Would he ever be the Sherlock John had known?

When Sherlock looked up his mask was firmly in place.  “Come along,” he said.  “If we’re going to eat dinner we should get moving.”

John nodded, picking up the throw as Sherlock cast it aside. 

“Leave it,” Sherlock said as he nicked a biscuit from the plate.  “Mrs. Meadows will send someone up for it and the tea as well.” 

Troubled, John followed Sherlock, appraising the too sharp line of his bare shoulder blades, and how the pyjamas barely stayed up, so slim were his hips.  As they headed down the two flights of stairs John wondered what all of this meant for his friend.  Sleeping an abnormal number of hours, not eating, nightmares and having divested himself of what had previously been an extension of his arm. 

Lost in his own deductions he had to stop short as he almost plowed into Sherlock.  He’d halted at the open door of John’s room. 

Sherlock put his hand up, to still John and for the first time since Sherlock had reappeared in his life, John felt the same adrenalin rush he did when they had been working cases. 

Using one hand, Sherlock carefully pushed the door open.  “Hello?” he said, inching further into the room, as much grace in his body as there ever had been.   Though he had to admit, that seeing Sherlock be Sherlock half naked was something entirely different He swallowed against the adrenalin and the warmth pooling in his belly.

“Hello,” Katie said, coming out of John’s closet.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “Can we help you?”

“Sorry, sir,” she said, her voice shaky.  “I was just bringing up the tea and coffee for your rooms.”

“And you were in Dr. Watson’s closet for what reason?”  Sherlock’s voice was cold, hard.

John looked between them wondering what Sherlock was seeing that he didn’t.

“I was looking for laundry,” she said.

“In the closet?” Sherlock asked again.  John looked back at him. 

“I,” John blushed.  “I wasn’t quite sure what to do with soiled clothes.  I thought they went in the large pullout bin in the –  ” he motioned toward the toilet.

“That is correct,” Sherlock said.  “Which is why I’m wondering why Miss Evans was in your closet.”

Her full tan did nothing to hide the blush to the roots of her hair.  “Well, I didn’t find anything in linen bin so I thought I’d check the closet.”

Puzzled, John started toward the bathroom.  “Maybe I didn’t…”

“No, no,” she said, tone apologetic.  “I’m sure someone else must have collected them.”

John stopped and turned back.  Sherlock was as agitated as a wet cat.  “Thanks for bringing the tea things up,” he said.

She colored again, this time high on her cheek bones.  “You’re quite welcome,” she said then turned almost fleeing.

“What is wrong?” John asked.

“Why was she in your room?”  Sherlock demanded, eyes scanning the room.  He strode over to the closet and looked inside, cataloguing everything, no doubt.

“Looking for laundry?” John ventured. 

“If that is so why was she in your closet?  She’s been here for at least two years.  It is not as if she doesn’t know where to find the laundry bin.”

John snapped.  “How would I know what she was there for?  You’re the one with servants.”

Sherlock rounded on John.  “You want her,” he said.

John’s mouth dropped open in shock.  “You’d better eat soon: you’re clearly delusional.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock said, crossing the room in three aggressive strides, glaring down at him.

But John held his ground.  No way was he moving or backing down just because Sherlock had several inches on him.  “You look like a bloody vulture when you do that, you know.”

Surprise showed on Sherlock’s face for a second, maybe two and then disappeared.  “Do not try to change the subject.  I saw how you looked at her.”

“You were right,” John said, snapping right back.  “You aren’t the Sherlock I used to know if you really believe what you’re saying.”

Sherlock’s head jerked as if John had struck him.  Now John moved in, deep into personal space made even more intimate by Sherlock’s near-nakedness.  “And you’re an idiot.”  John watched an array of emotions flit over Sherlock’s face. 

He felt his own temper rising and for the first time since Sherlock’s return: he didn’t care.  “There might have been a time that I would have looked at Ms. Evans.  But not anymore.”   His voice grew very quiet, and he saw Sherlock process the meaning: anger, and a lot of it.  “Not that it is any concern of yours who it is I want – you gave up that right when you jumped off a roof in front of me, pretended you were dead when apparently everyone else in your little world knew you were alive.  Everyone but me!”  John realized his breathing was shallow, his voice rose.  “So don’t you dare.  Don’t you dare presume to be offended because you think I might be looking at a woman!”

He turned away, hands clenched, literally shaking from the pain of it.  But then he turned back.  “Do you know the stupidest part of what you just said??  Do you?”

Sherlock hadn’t moved.  He looked stunned, his breath coming in short shallow bursts. 

“The stupidest part is that I just spent the last several hours wrapped around you, and you me, in a very small bed with you half-naked.”  He stuck out a finger and jabbed it on Sherlock’s bare chest.  “I think it is safe for you to check your insecurity at the door.”

“I’m not insecure,” Sherlock spat, his face a picture in disgust.

 John stepped away and turned his back, closing his eyes.  Of course that would be the one thing Sherlock picked up on.  Not the part that mattered.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock called behind him.

“Showering for dinner,” John responded over his shoulder. “I’d suggest you do the same.”


	8. Chapter 8

Days continued to slip by, and an uneasy truce lay between them.  Sherlock would have railed against it, but he couldn’t find the energy to do so.  It made no sense: this _thing_ between them.  No more sense than the exhaustion he couldn’t seem to shake. 

According to John the wound was getting better.  Yet Sherlock continued to find himself listless, unable to focus, and even worse, barely caring.

Nanny told him that the day after John had called him an idiot, John began using the gym facilities.

It made Sherlock want to go observe, to see if he could see the anger and frustration bleeding away from John with every flexed muscle, every bead of sweat. 

At one point Sherlock considered a swim, but by the time he located swim gear he was too tired to even leave his room.  Instead he’d napped until Nanny came to rouse him for dinner.

Dozily, he decided this had to stop.  He needed John.  He needed him back and he needed a plan of attack, something to jolt John out of his anger and into something more productive.  Something with which Sherlock could work in order to get back on solid ground.

~ooOoo~

Breaking out the blue tie, John dressed in the grey pinstripe suit, paired with a dove grey shirt.  The workouts were helping.  He pretended the body back he was punching was Sherlock: not worrying a bit about those bloody perfect cheekbones.

He felt better than he had in days, maybe even longer.  In the mirror he saw a thinner but healthier looking version of himself.  The bags under his eyes were all but gone and he saw the beginnings of a sparkle in his eyes that had been missing a good long while.

He looked good, he thought, a spring in his step as he left his room and went to knock on Sherlock’s door.

“Come,” Sherlock commanded and John rolled his eyes as he entered.

He stopped stone cold dead in his tracks. 

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, his damp hair lightly tousled.  His trousers were on but open, silk boxers low on those narrow hips.  John’s eyes tracked up, but the shirt was also open, exposing more than it covered.

He watched a corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirk up and he knew Sherlock was well aware of the effect he had on John.  Stubborn bravery compelled him forward.  “You’re not dressed,” he said, having to clear his throat to complete the sentence.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and cocked his injured hip forward.  “I thought you might want to have a look.”  He paused, his voice pitched low.  “Before dinner.”

“I could have looked after,” John said, moving closer still.  Aware of his temporal artery thrumming, he carefully laid his hand on the proffered bare hip, but not touching the injury itself.  So close he could watch Sherlock’s eyes dilate, feel Sherlock’s breath on John’s face.  The skin beneath John’s fingers was warm and just this ‘not-so-innocent’ touch was threatening to push John over the edge.

“You still could,” Sherlock said his voice breathless.  “Look after dinner.” He licked his lower lip.

John stepped back, cursing himself for doing so.  So much for courage.  “I’ll…I’ll get the dressings,” he said, turning, almost quick-stepping it to the closet.

Once safely inside he took two deep shuddering breaths; he also took stock of his surroundings, if not his state of mind.  There were fresh medical supplies on the top of the small refrigerator.  John took the opportunity to put away the ones Mycroft had sent up earlier: the tools to perform a small surgery to lance the wound.  Thank God it had continued to heal on its own and not been necessary. The thought of sinking a knife into Sherlock’s body sent chills down his spine. 

Having effectively shelving his libido, if only momentarily, John wondered if Mycroft had included the envelope of Xanax that he’d found tucked next to the suture kit for Sherlock or for him.  No doubt Mycroft would have pre-thought the toll it would take on John to perform surgery on Sherlock, even if it was for the greater good.

Stepping back out with what he’d need to cover the wound, John was once again in control of himself.  Regardless of what Sherlock was trying to project, there was still something off.  His behavior was so different, too different and John didn’t have any intention of making things worse than they already were.  He might be a danger junkie, but even he knew that the two of them falling into bed together would not help anything. Sherlock was his patient first.

As John stepped closer, he noticed that Sherlock’s face was no longer that of a potential lover. Indeed, his expression was one of practiced nothingness, as if in the short time that John had been in the closet, someone had flipped a switch. He stopped short, a few feet away, hesitating before reminding himself he was Sherlock’s doctor.

But the thought remained: had Sherlock just been shamming then?  Something inside John hurt at the thought.  But wasn’t that the concern he’d had ever since learning Sherlock was alive?  Mycroft had said Sherlock wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to, but John wasn’t so sure.

Now when Sherlock bared the hip it was with an air of petulance, not of seduction.  John covered the wound quickly.  He’d have a better look later while Sherlock was hooked up to the IV.

That night, dinner had passed without incident, Sherlock was withdrawn but he ate without much prodding.  After dinner Sherlock stated he was tired and asked if John would administer the IV sooner, rather later, as he thought he’d be turning in early.


	9. Chapter 9

Days blended into nights and back to days again.  Occasionally Sherlock remembered to eat, but most of the time he couldn’t be bothered. A fresh supply of pyjamas, Nanny and John nudging him to shower, and John running the IV were the only breaks to the endless cycle of hours.  He knew he was losing hours he had no memory of, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Nanny would ask.

He couldn’t find the words to articulate what was behind his eyelids whenever he closed them.  Even if he could, he would never subject Nanny to the horrors he’d seen, the horrors he’d committed.

After the evening John had run away from him, seeking shelter in a closet of all the ironic places, Sherlock had watched John slip firmly back into ‘doctor mode.’  Given that Sherlock had never been particularly conversant in the art of intimacy, with John still uncertain, he found himself completely out of his depth. 

Retreating behind the walls of his own mind, Sherlock had for once, found silence there.  He fell into it, wrapping himself in the novelty.  He knew something was off.  He knew he should find it disquieting. But knowing wasn’t preventing him from embracing the inky blackness.  For, despite the shadows, it was the closest thing to peace he’d found other than being wrapped in John’s arms.

So, he slumbered away in a restless oblivion, blind to the huddle of Nanny and John at the end of his bed. Ignorant of the worry lines carved deep on their faces as they debated the merits of calling Mycroft.

~ooOoo~

John had no more than rung off before realizing that contacting Mycroft had been a colossal mistake.  In a manner designed to make prime ministers weep, Mycroft reiterated that the Johannesburg cell was all too real.  And worse, they had managed to slip into Britain.  The clipped tone of Mycroft’s voice told him someone would be losing his job for cocking up.

“So what does that mean for us?” John asked, ice running through his veins.

“It means we’ll need to tighten the perimeter,” Mycroft said, smoothly.  “Already completed. Chatter suggests they do not know you are here.  But they are looking for Sherlock.”

John swallowed. “He’s not doing well.”   He’d given Mycroft a quick rundown of Sherlock’s behavior.

“I can see why you’re concerned,” Mycroft said.  “I’d recommend giving him a few more days.  If nothing changes I’ll come up.  Keep me posted.”

~ooOoo~

 

In the days that came after, John ruefully acknowledged he’d been the one to pull back the last time, but now it was as if Sherlock had checked out.  As if they’d never slept wrapped around one another, as if the moment full of heat and promise in Sherlock’s bedroom where John had laid a hand on Sherlock’s bared skin for reasons other than medical had never happened.

The more time passed with nothing really to do and no additional communication coming from Sherlock or Mycroft, John became antsy, inwardly railing about being basically locked in the house.  He’d assume that no word from Mycroft meant he had no more word on the cell trying to close around Sherlock.

After he’d had the tour of the staff quarters downstairs: complete with Downton Abbey bells on the wall connecting the various family rooms, thank you very much, and drank more tea than was probably advisable munching on freshly made biscuits all the while listening to Mrs. Carlisle prattle on, he decided enough was enough.

He’d stopped short as he’d walked past the library.  Sherlock was there.  This was the first time John had seen him out of his room in over week.  He was dressed and had a book on his lap, though he was staring unseeingly at the wall.

“Feeling alright?” he asked. 

Over the last two days Sherlock seemed to be sleeping less, still more than when they’d lived at Baker Street, but less than twenty hours a day of late.  He was eating more, with less prompting; but when Sherlock didn’t see John watching, his eyes still looked haunted.

“Yes.”

“No more nightmares?” John probed, wanting more than a monosyllabic answer. 

“I daresay you’d know if I’d had a nightmare,” Sherlock said looking back at his book as it if was the most interesting thing he’d ever read.

John nodded, knowing a rebuff when he saw one, turned sharply and walked out.

He’d gone to Mrs. Meadows.  She’d fussed until he’d put on the Kevlar and rain gear feeling a right clot. Armed in her own battle gear, she followed John outside where he took his first full breath of fresh air since he’d arrived.  She’d introduced him to the gardener, Emmanuel. 

A wizened small man, shorter than John even, he took great pride in showing John through the various outbuildings closest to the house.  They started in the stand-alone green house where he grew herbs and a small supply of produce so that the household had fresh veg year round.

He then showed John an area where he was working splicing roses to create a new variation based upon Mrs. Holmes favorite two colors: cream and lavender. John smiled, reminded of his mother’s interest in the village’s annual flower show.  She was an avid gardener herself.  And he was able to at least keep up with the gardener due to the information he’d sponged off his mother over the years.

Emmanuel took him next to the old stables which had been converted to garages, storage and a bit of a workshop for Emmanuel who, as it turned out, was a bit of a carving enthusiast.

In fact, John was stunned at the talent in the carvings.  “You should sell these,” he said, stopping in front of a cross section of a tree which had been carved out until a portrait of a curly headed child peered back at him.  “Is this?” he began, turning to Emmanuel.

“Si,” Emmanuel said, nodding, clearly pleased by John’s interest.  “It is His Nibs.”

“Do you all call him that?” John asked, amused.

“Si,” Emmanuel said.  “All except Miz Meadows.  She doesn’t like it.”

I bet she doesn’t, John thought.  “May I?” John asked, wanting to remove the portrait of the young Sherlock.

“Of course, of course,” Emmanuel said. 

John took it down and looked at it carefully.  It was literally flawless. “I’d love to buy this from you.”

“You take it,” Emmanuel said.

“No,” John said, shaking his head.  “Not unless you let me purchase it.”

“No.  I want you to have it.  I hear you’re a good friend to His Nibs.” He sighed and a look of sadness passed over his face.  “He never had a good friend.”  Emmanuel reached out, touching the top of the carving, gently pushing it toward John.  “You have it.”

John suddenly felt overwhelmed.

Not only did he not know how to talk to the man standing in front of him, he also didn’t know what to do with the sadness, and the anger, of having this man – this stranger - confirm what he’d already had been afraid was true.  Not only had John been Sherlock's only friend during that hellish weekend at Dartmoor. He may have very well been his only friend – ever

Nodding, John took Emmanuel’s calloused hand in his own, shaking it firmly. “Thank you.  I’ll take good care of it.”


	10. Chapter 10

John jerked awake.  His breathing was heavy, yet he was unsure of what woke him.

A low moan. Someone was in pain.  And they needed help.

Sherlock.

Out of the bed in a flash, John didn’t even stop for his dressing gown or slippers as he jerked open the door and ran toward the sound. 

Sherlock was thrashing in the bed when John threw the door open.  Tangled in the bedcovers, Sherlock seemed frantic to get free.  Warily, John moved closer to the bed, his hand brushing against Sherlock’s arm as he reached to untwist the covers.

Before he could even take a breath, John found himself flat of his back on the bed, Sherlock, looming over him, practically feral.   His eyes were wild, pupils blown open.  He pressed his thumbs into John’s carotid arteries.  “Sherlock!” he gasped. “It’s me.  It’s John!”

John saw stars; he could barely breathe, but Sherlock kept pressing. “Sher!” he tried, then stopped.  Reaching up with what felt like an amazing effort, he touched Sherlock’s hair.  The loss of the curls hurt.  Literally.  In his dreams, he’d ran his hand through Sherlock’s inky black curls  over and over as Sherlock dropped to his knees and swallowed John whole.

He gasped, remembering the flip side of the dreams: when he kneeled, Sherlock on the couch where he often laid pouting or zoned out, but in his dreams Sherlock’s head was thrown back while John worshipped at the throne of Holmes.  Even though he’d never done so in real life, in the dreams John’s hands and mouth were confident.  They knew just where to touch Sherlock: the dimple in his bottom.  The sexy “V” from hips down to groin.  And with faced with Sherlock’s erection, he’d known exactly how to handle it: to love, and lave and tease until Sherlock had come undone beneath him. 

His heartbeat seemed to be slowing, but it was loud in his ears, like he was underwater.  John struggled to come back to reality:  Sherlock was above him, on top of him, straddling him like so many fantasies.   

Reaching up, John touched warm skin, running his thumbs down those cheekbones that both he and Irene had commented on.  Had she ever had this?  Had she ever felt Sherlock’s weight on top of her?  A greedy part of him he hadn’t even fully recognized snarled at the thought of The Woman.  If she had lain beneath Sherlock then he would wipe away every single memory of her from Sherlock’s body.

Groaning, John pushing his hips upward, desperate for more contact.  As he brushed against Sherlock’s pelvic bone, he belatedly realized he was hard.  Very, very hard. “Sher--”  he tried again, but only for a second.  ‘Autoerotic Asphyxia’ his mind helpfully supplied.

“You should know better, John.” Sherlock said, leaning down, whispering into his ear.  He ground down.  “You’re a soldier.  You’re a soldier who has more than a passing familiarity with PTSD.  You should never have touched me in the throes of a nightmare.”

“I – ” John tried to form a coherent sentence.  And failed, but continued bucking his hips up toward the heat.  The only source of warmth on this entire godforsaken planet.

“Is this you, John?” Sherlock asked, his eyes clearer, his hips grinding down.  “Or is it the lack of oxygen.”

“Let me breathe,” John tried to gasp; his heartbeat was racing now, joining his hips in drumming out a staccato beat all their own.

“You said you wanted me,” Sherlock purred into his ear.  His fingers releasing the pressure ever so slightly on John’s neck.  “You ran away.”

“I didn’t,” John gasped, his hands running around Sherlock’s waist, hands diving into those expensive pyjama pants.

“You did,” Sherlock purred.  “So which is it?  Are you running away?  Or do you want me?  Are you sure this time?” he asked, breath tickling John’s ear.  “Could be dangerous,” he said. 

“And here I am,” John said, turning his head, crashing into Sherlock’s mouth: teeth and tongue probing, forcing entrance.  “Here I am.” Regaining more coordination in his limbs every moment, he made a move, expertly flipping Sherlock until their positions were reversed, ever mindful of the knife wound, never mind the port in his arm.  He allowed his tongue to learn every crevice of Sherlock’s mouth.  Jesus, just the smell of Sherlock after all these years brought him to the razor’s edge

This was going to be quick and John couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn.  He let all of his grief and anger show through as he bit Sherlock’s lips, only to lick at them apologetically; he trailed his tongue around the delicate contours of Sherlock’s jaw and down into the hollow of his elegant neck.   Sherlock’s scent was stronger there, and John groaned wanting more.

Sherlock’s hands slid into John’s pyjama bottoms, and he let loose a triumphant sound as  long slender fingers captured John’s bottom, all the while sliding his hips free from the now constraining material

Wanting more skin, John moved up a fraction to push aside Sherlock’s bottoms when that Sherlock’s hand slipped around, fist closing on John’s erection.  Those supple fingers and wrist seemed to know everything he liked: perfect pressure, perfect touch, perfect angle, and perfect stroke.

Stilling, everything went white-hot for John and he groaned; his body tensed, and he was washed over the edge, coming harder and hotter than he’d done since that first dream eight months ago the night he’d escaped to Mary’s loo.

Collapsing, he rolled off of Sherlock, and lay there trying not to pant.  Sex hadn’t felt that good since he was 18.  He floated on blissful silence for a moment and when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was propped up on one elbow studying him.  _Oh God!  Sherlock._   He tried to reach for him: he had barely touched him at all.

“You’re crying,” Sherlock said.

John froze.  “Am I?” he reached up to touch his own face, to trace the track marks of his tears. 

“I realize that I am a novice in this area but I would like to believe those are tears of joy, rather than ones of sadness or regret.”

John pushed his head back into the pillow to get a bit more perspective, trying to read Sherlock’s face.  “It’s hard to imagine you a novice in any area,” he said.

A throaty laugh escaped Sherlock’s mouth. 

John leaned up for a kiss. “How’s your wound?” he asked, breathing into Sherlock’s perfect lips.  They were plump, suffused with blood, and John couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“You seem to have a fascination with my mouth,” Sherlock said, his eyes and voice full of knowing.

John shivered as his mind flooded with memories of dreams and fantasies.  “That might be, Sherlock.  But right now,” he stopped and slid his hand down Sherlock’s body.  “Right now, I’m speaking as your doctor: how is the wound?” Inwardly he cursed himself.  They’d only stopped the antibiotics that very evening, it had seemed to be healing nicely, the red painful puckering cooling, no longer angrily swollen.  He prayed they hadn’t done anything to reinjure Sherlock. 

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John leaned back, and looked down Sherlock’s body.  And it was what he didn’t see that set his blood running cold.  He felt nauseated, sick at himself for not noticing earlier.  After all, hadn’t Mycroft pointed out how much easier desire was to see in a bloke?

“It’s not what you think,” Sherlock said, sighing.  “It is most likely a byproduct of the endless cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers, you have me taking, _doctor_.”

“Sherlock –” John began, stricken. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock warned.  And he moved, pushing John flat on his back again, grimacing a little before pressing him against the bed.  Sherlock’s eyes bore into him, trying to make John observe what Sherlock saw so readily.  “The mind is willing,” he said.  “The transport is weak.”

John nodded, swallowing against emotion he didn’t quite know how to categorize.  “I – ” he shut his mouth, mind racing, already calculating how long until the last drug cocktail would have completely cleared Sherlock’s system.

Sherlock lay his head down, next to John’s and for a few moments John closed his eyes and breathed him in.  Now he felt the tears on his cheeks and didn’t care.  His arms came around Sherlock and his body racked with sobs.  “Oh God,” he said, voice tight and low.  “You have no idea what it was like.” He gulped in air.   There was no way to explain the pain he’d been through.  “I thought I should have seen the signs.  I’m a doctor for God’s sake.  I should have been able to stop you.” He stopped, taking in a shaky breath, remembering what it had felt like when part of him had broken apart, tired of life.  “I thought: if only you’d told me, I’d’ve jumped too.”

Sherlock jerked up, both hands cupping John’s head.  “Don’t you dare,” he said.  “Never ever wish you were dead, John.”  He lowered his forehead to meet John’s. 

John felt the trembling in Sherlock’s body.  “You are the only reason I survived.” He leaned up and kissed John’s forehead, like a benediction.  “Saving you….” He pulled in a long breath.  “It kept me alive.”


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock felt the sensation even before his mind could connect the dots.  And for once he wasn’t bothered that his mind was sleepy.  He knew the blunt fingers running over his bare chest.  “John,” he breathed.

He felt John’s breath near his belly button and his eyes snapped open.   What he saw looked like worship. 

“Perhaps its better this way, you know?” John asked, crawling up Sherlock’s body.  “Now I’ll get to learn you.  To taste and to smell, drink you in without worrying about the end game.”

John leaned down and ran the tip of his tongue at the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, then nibbled carefully.  “I’d worried that I wouldn’t know what to do, how to please you.” 

Sherlock wanted to simultaneously move into and away from the wet warmth.  “No one would,” Sherlock said voice breathless.

“I’m not ‘no one’,” John said, working his way up with his mouth.

Sherlock shivered and John made the move again.  “No,” he said, raspy, digging his hands into the high count thread.  “You are not ‘no one’,”

How many nights had he lay here in this very room, wondering, hoping, and ruthlessly squashing that hope, that someone would hold him down, lave his too sharply angled body with kisses.  To grind against him the way John had the night before? 

Too many.  Too many nights alone.  Too many nights where his mind called his bodily desires imbecilic. 

Too many nights when he desperately wished for someone to ease his aloneness: an aloneness that ultimately sent him in search of another solution: a 7 and a half percent solution, in fact.  

The first hit had been glorious.

The noise in his head: silent.

For the first time in his life, he hadn’t felt so alone, so different.

“So tell me,” John whispered into an ear Sherlock had never even known was an erogenous zone. 

“What?” Sherlock said, nearly overwhelmed by the heat.  John’s body over him, his scent, his sound.  And not just the sound of his voice, which had always been a source of comfort, but of his heartbeat and the blood rushing beneath the skin.

“What do you like?” John said, nipping behind the ear.

“Uh – ” Sherlock vocalized.  “I – I don’t know.”

John pulled up and caught his eye.  “Sherlock?” 

The concern in John’s eyes was almost painful.  But Sherlock, never one to mince words decided this was no time for lies.  “I – it never,” he stammered, his brain short circuited by the endorphins running through his body.  He felt a heady sense of desire pooling in his belly even though his member didn’t respond as such.

Cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck, John closed his mouth over Sherlock’s in an almost chaste kiss.  “How can you have been so assured that evening I walked in to find you half naked?”  John voice was inquisitive, not mean or cruel.  “And yet: here, you spread out on my bed – ”

“ – it’s my bed, actually,” Sherlock corrected, and then inwardly cursed himself.  Then stopped.  John knew who he was.  Or who he had been.

John nodded.  “Of course it is.  Now: back to, how could you be such a tease then and now, you – ” John broke off and just looked at him, affection and amazement in his eyes, like days of old.

“A tease?” Sherlock asked the word rolling around his mouth, trying it on for size.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John said, eyes full of affection.  “Standing half naked, with the come-hither look?   That was very much a tease or at the very least some of the heaviest flirting I’ve ever witnessed.”

Fully awake now, Sherlock surged up, his hands holding onto John’s hips until he was upright, holding a lap full of John, long fingers digging into the firm muscles of John’s bottom.  He lowered his eyes, looked up through his lashes, and pushed his bottom out in a little pout.  “Flirting, you say?”

It was John’s turn to look overwhelmed and Sherlock found that he liked _that_ much better.

“Flirting?  Flirting is easy.  It’s an easily picked up skill.  I learned that before I ever left for uni.” They were close enough Sherlock could feel John’s little huffs of breath.  “Now kissing,” he said, looking directly at the thin line of John’s mouth, slightly parted.  “That is something for which I’ll require additional instruction.”

The groan from John was the only warning he had before John kissed him. 

John kissed like he did everything, Sherlock observed: with full abandon, infinite skill and no head for danger.  He wanted more: he wanted it all.  Now.

John’s hands felt like fire as they slid up pushing the open pyjama top off of Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock shivered as if cold in the wake of that touch.

It was as if John was determined to learn every secret lurking in Sherlock’s mouth,  his tongue was marvelously dexterous, inventive and ever searching, teasing out and mapping every sensitive surface.

Sherlock gasped as John pulled away, his lips moving down Sherlock’s neck, another trail of fire as he nibbled a bit hard on his collar bone, then licked an apology. 

“You’re beautiful,” John whispered into his neck.  “You have always been so beautiful.  From the moment I met you I thought so.”  He pulled back and caught Sherlock’s gaze, pupils dilated.  “And you’ve never been more beautiful than now: lips swollen, the flush of lust,” he trailed his hand down Sherlock’s chest, tinged pink with desire. “I’ve never wanted a man before: but you?”  John’s voice was husky, low.  “You, I’d give anything.”

Sherlock heard a moan, and realized it was emanating from him.  How embarrassing. 

But John seemed to love it and lowered his head down, kissing and licking his way from Sherlock’s collar bone to points south.

His hands moved of their own accord, sliding into John’s hair, across broad shoulders, shoulders with well developed muscles, evidently the days in the gym were paying off.

Desire circled in his body, swirling round and round similar to how his mind used to race, and just like his mind, there was no outlet for the pent up energy.  At least not now.  He groaned loudly, shoving his hips up, begging for touch, even as he knew there would be no release.

“May I?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned, unsure of the question.  “Sorry?”

John swallowed.  “I’d like to see you naked, but I don’t want to….”he trailed off.

Oh, of course, John would assume there was embarrassment about his lack of erection where, in fact, there was none.  “Please,” he said, canting his hips to allow John access to slide the linen off of his hips.  He was bare beneath.

As John sat up, taking in the long length of his legs, Sherlock saw that unlike himself, John was having no problems with erections if the tent in his pyjamas was anything to go by.  He pitched his voice low, letting his eyes rake over the telltale bulge.  “Would you like me to help you with that?”

Surprisingly John’s face turned red.   “Uh, no,” he stammered.  “I mean, normally, yes, but this morning is about you.”

“And if I _want_ to touch you?” Sherlock asked.

“There will be time for that later,” John said.

Sherlock remained silent. After a moment John seemed to relax and moved to sit between Sherlock’s legs.  John’s fingers teased trails down Sherlock’s inner thighs causing him to shiver.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, as John dipped his head, his tongue following where his fingers had been moments earlier.”

“I used to dream about this,” John said, his hands reaching up, cupping Sherlock’s bottom, kneading softly, and fingers teasing the cleft between his cheeks.

Sherlock moaned and didn’t give a damn if it was undignified.  He wanted.  He wanted so much and yet didn’t know how to say, how to describe, how to ask.  “I – I – John,” he breathed.

“You are even more amazing than I could have imagined,” John continued, as if he wasn’t aware of the physical and emotional turmoil roiling inside Sherlock’s body.

Would it always feel like this?  Like fire and ice?  Like he wanted to take a bite out of John, to have John sink his teeth into him, marking him permanently?  “I – want….”

John’s head rose and Sherlock saw that John in fact did know what he was doing to Sherlock.  Sadist.. 

Carefully, but with speed, Sherlock pounced, flipping them.

Much to his delight, John actually shouted when Sherlock ground down against his erection, putting pressure exactly where he imagined John needed it.  Pausing only a moment to meet John’s eyes, he leaded down, diving into the perfection of John’s mouth.  “Mine,” he growled, pulling back just enough to form the word.  “Mine.”

“Sher –” John tried to pull away for a moment.   He must have seen something in Sherlock’s eyes because he said, “Fuck it,” and pulled Sherlock down on him, hungry, undulating up.

Yes!  Sherlock thought.  Last night he’d been too compromised to note every detail of John’s desire and orgasm. Now, more focused he could feel John’s tension; he could hear every hitch in his breath.  Sherlock felt the clench in John’s spine and recognized John’s desperation as he raced to completion.

After, Sherlock slumped over John, whispering in his ear, a touch of a sulk.  “You should have let me touch you.”

A breathless laugh broke from John’s lips.  “It didn’t seem necessary,” he said.

“I didn’t say it was necessary,” Sherlock said.  “I wanted to.  You stopped me.”

“I really didn’t.”

A full sulk now: “You told me not to.”

“And you’ve listened to me since when?”  John said, burrowing his head into Sherlock’s neck, gently nipping.

“Since I came back,” Sherlock said.

John stilled beneath him and Sherlock froze as well.  Should he have not said that?  Why?  Why shouldn’t he have said that?  He grit his teeth in frustration.

“Good Christ,” John said finally.  “I guess you have at that, haven’t you?”  He looked up and Sherlock caught his eye.  He watched as John seemed as intent on reading him as Sherlock was reading John.

“You know,” John said.  “I might like the new Sherlock.”

Relief flooded through Sherlock and he chuckled.  “Except the hair,” he said.

John reached up and ran his fingers through it.  “I confess I prefer the curls.  But I can live with it shorter if you must.”

Sherlock smiled… a genuine smile.  “I’ll take it under advisement.”  He closed his eyes and nuzzled down, not caring one bit about the stickiness between them as he drifted off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

John walked out of the toilet and stopped.  There Sherlock stood in all his naked glory.  His breath caught in his throat and he heard the possessive voice of Sherlock in his head as he thought: _Mine_.

Aloud he said, “What are you doing?”

“Looking for robes,” Sherlock said.

John, as naked as Sherlock walked toward him.  He placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and pulled Sherlock to him.  In keeping with his newfound obedience, Sherlock obligingly leaned down for a long and surprisingly wicked kiss.  Even though they’d only shared one night, Sherlock was much more confident with his tongue than he’d been the night before.  John shivered desperate to feel that talented tongue elsewhere.

Breaking free, he pulled back, putting enough room between him that his brain cells would once again fire.  “Why on earth would we want robes?” he teased.

“Because I called down for sustenance,” Sherlock said.   “Nanny should be up shortly.”

John froze, astonished.  “Sorry?”  He glanced around the room, desperately looking around for his pyjamas or something he could throw on.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, staring at him with concern on his face.

“I’ve got to get back to my room,” he said.

“What on earth for?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock!” John said, agape.  “I’m not going to be caught naked in your room with you!”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “Why not?”

“Sherlock!” John said again.  “Mrs. Meadows will know what we’ve been up to.”

“And that bothers you?” Sherlock asked.

John heard the ice in Sherlock’s voice, and stopped, confused.  “Hang on,” he said, moving closer.  “What is going on in that head of yours?”

Sherlock frowned.  “I….you….”

John pulled him close and reached up, pulling his head down for a soft kiss.  “You’re a complete berk.”  He kissed him again.

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked confusion in his voice.

“I’m not ashamed of loving you, Sherlock.”  John allowed himself a moment of frottage against his naked lover.  _Lover._   “I’m embarrassed to be caught starkers by your _Nanny_.”  John felt Sherlock relax.

“It’s nothing she’s not seen before, John.  You’re a doctor.  You’ve been in the military.  I’m surprised you’re so self-conscious.”

John blew out a breath.  “Well, be that as it may…” he broke away and went back to looking for his pajama bottoms.  “It must be a public school thing,” he muttered to himself as he found and then bent over to pull on the bottoms. 

He groaned when he felt Sherlock’s long hot body covering him, bending him even further over, the soft flutter of silk falling over them.  John let Sherlock position his hands on the bed, closing his eyes as Sherlock’s closed his long slender fingers over his own shorter ones. 

Sherlock’s breath was in his ear.  “Is this something you would want?”

A frisson of fear and desire ran through John.  Words would not come.  There was nothing he could force past the desire filling him up again, threatening to overcome him.  Instead he groaned and nodded.

“Good,” Sherlock said, moving one hand to wrap his arm around John’s waist suggestively.

John groaned again, imagining Sherlock moving inside him, holding John up while he drove in and pumping rhythmically.  Christ those drugs had better release their hold on Sherlock.  Soon.

A knock at the door had John panicking, almost tossing Sherlock off him.  He colored at the sound of Sherlock’s amused chuckle as he stood and wrapped his dressing gown around himself. _The bastard._

“Come in,” he said.

John had to set his jaw and force his feet to stand their ground.

“Good morning, boys,” Mrs. Meadows said, walking in with a tray.

Without thinking John rushed to help her with it. She smiled at him and he took it from her, sitting it on the low chest of drawers.

Sherlock appeared behind him, and John felt the cool silk on his shoulders as Sherlock placed another dressing gown on him.  Looking up, he smiled his gratefulness.  Sherlock beamed back at him.

“You boys look much better this morning,” Mrs. Meadows said.  “Sherlock said you’d be hungry so Mrs. Carlisle cut you nice slices of the quiche Florentine she’d just finished.  There is toast, butter, jam.”

“It looks divine,” John said, infinitely more comfortable now that he was covered, even though he knew there was no question they’d been in bed.  Together.  Doing more than sleeping.

“I’ll leave you then,” she said, catching John’s eye.  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Sherlock pulled her into a one armed hug like John remembered him doing with Mrs. Hudson.  He kissed her forehead.  “Thank you, Nanny.”

The love in her eyes as she looked up at him, never failed to touch John.  Sherlock was nowhere as alone as he once said he was.  Or as alone as he’d been for the last three years.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock roused himself as he heard the doorknob turn and he felt the pressure in the room change.  Blurrily he looked toward the door.  “Mycroft,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

From beside him, John, who too had been stirring froze.  “Did you just call Mycroft’s name while you were in bed with me?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in amusement as he caught a slightly shocked look on Mycroft’s face.  _Good show, John._   “Yes, John.  I did.”

Now John didn’t even breathe. 

Sherlock nudged him with an elbow after a long moment.  “Only because he is standing in the doorway,” he drawled.

“What?” John sat up and then punched Sherlock’s arm.  “You bastard!”

“I don’t even want to know what prompted you down that line of thought,” Mycroft said, frowning at John.

John grinned.  “I don’t know.  Maybe a dark little fantasy of mine?”

Now both brothers stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Kidding!” he said, laughing at their faces.  But then he dropped his eyes.  “Mostly.”

Sherlock screwed up his face in disgust.  “You may have just put me off sex entirely John.  Surely that wasn’t your end goal?”

“No,” John began, but then cut himself off, looking back to Mycroft.  “Hello Mycroft,” he said.  “Shall we start again?  What brings you to your not so humble abode?”

Mycroft’s face was back to its normal bland composition; however, Sherlock noted just the faintest tinge of colour at his cheekbones.   Something in the conversation had struck a nerve then.  Be that as it may, now was not the time for poking the bear.  Mycroft had obviously left London because there were new developments.  Judging from the newer lines on his brow it wasn’t good.

Sherlock cut in before Mycroft could answer.  “He has news.”

Mycroft nodded fractionally.  “Dinner in an hour?  Meet me for a drink when you’re presentable.” He smiled a fake smile and turned and left.

John sighed.  “I get the feeling I’m not going to like whatever he has to tell us.”

Sherlock didn’t comment.  There was no point restating the obvious.

 

~ooOoo~

 

They were a sober couple descending the stairs.  John felt cheated, really.  New love: now should be the time of happiness, when each other was all they could think about, all they wanted to do was touch, kiss, sleep wrapped up in each other.

Instead they were walking down the stairs as if they were going to an execution.  The day they went to court for Sherlock to testify against Moriarty flashed in front of John’s eyes and he faltered on the step.  Sherlock was right there, tilting his head up, searching until he found what he was looking for.  “We’ll make it,” he said.

“That’s not what you said the last time Mycroft was here for dinner,” John said, swallowing against nervousness.

Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to John’s lips.  “I didn’t have as much to lose then.”

John expelled a breath.  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Well it should,” Sherlock said.  “I work best under pressure.”

 _You used to,_ John thought. But he faltered now.  He’d seen no real sign of his former flatmate, the brilliant, hyperactive soul whose own intellect threatened to tear him apart without a problem to work on.

 “Stop looking for him,” Sherlock said, startling John so much, he needed Sherlock’s other arm to steady him.  “John – are you the same man you were before you went to Afghanistan?”

John shook his head.  “I came back from war –” he broke off, looking away.  “I was broken.”  He looked back, uncaring of the tears shining in his eyes.  “You fixed me.”

Sherlock stepped back up, and pulled their foreheads together, moving enough to lay a tender kiss on John’s forehead.  “John,” he said.  “I didn’t fix you.  We fixed one another.”  He huffed a breath on John’s face.  “And I daresay we’ll do it again.”

“Right,” John said, pulling away, wiping at his nose, swallowing down the emotion.  “I thought you didn’t know anything about sentiment?”

Sherlock placed one last kiss on John’s forehead and spoke so quietly John had to strain to catch the words.  “You’ve been a good teacher.”

~ooOoo~

 

As they entered the study, Mycroft stood, motioning toward the door leading through to the dining room.  “I thought we would go right through,” he said.

Squaring his shoulders, John followed.

Mrs. Meadows and Katie brought in the makings of a cold dinner.  Mycroft waved her off when she asked if they’d like the white chablais she’d selected.

It was grim then, John knew.

Once the women had returned to the kitchen Sherlock said, “Spit it out Mycroft.  What is it?”

Mycroft barely suppressed a sigh and John was surprised by how tired Mycroft looked.  Not good at all.

“The good news is we have picked up the remaining team we knew about prior to your ‘return’.”

“And the bad?” Sherlock asked, eyes glued to Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft swallowed and John felt fear in his belly. 

“The Johannesburg cell has been spotted in the area.”

“In _which_ area?” Sherlock asked, his voice loud.  “Be more specific if you please!  Now is not the time for _useless_ intelligence.”

Mycroft nodded.  “In Welwyn.”

“Whew,” John whistled, crossing his arms in front of him.  “So less than an hour away then.”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed.

Hazarding a glance at the still silent Sherlock John did a double take.  He was as white as a ghost.  “Sherlock?” he asked.

Sherlock threw up a hand to still him, but kept his eyes on Mycroft. “I want them either all out of here or we have to go.  Still it may already be too late for the staff.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began.

Now Sherlock exploded, “Close the house, Mycroft!  Close it and get them the hell out of here!”

Mrs. Meadows, Mrs. Carlisle, Emmanuel and Katie filed in from the kitchen, causing all three of them to stop and stare. 

“No, Sherlock.  We won’t leave you,” Mrs. Meadows said.

Mrs. Carlisle weighed in, “No sir.”

“We’ll stand with you, mijo,” Emmanuel promised his voice quiet but determined.

Only Katie stayed quiet.

“While I assure you that Sherlock and I appreciate your gesture,” Mycroft began, “You all should really be packing in order to leave.  We can put you in a safer location until this dreadful business is behind us.

They did not move.

“We have no idea what the danger might be,” Mycroft tried again.  “They could fire bomb the estate for all we know.”

They did not falter.

“Nanny,” Sherlock said, as close to pleading as John had ever heard him. 

She sighed.  “Sherlock,” she said.

Again John was reminded of Mrs. Hudson.

“We’re here,” she said.  “We understand the risk.”

Sherlock and Mycroft both scanned their faces, their body language and seemed to see nothing but resolve. 

After a couple of more minutes, Mycroft nodded to them and they all seemed to relax, moving back through the swinging door into the kitchen.

“Mycroft,” John began.  “Where are your henchman?”

“I’ve stepped up the numbers.  I told you you’d never see them.  They are like ghosts.”

“So you’re saying you’ve had men in the house the entire time we’ve been here?” John asked, skeptical.

Mycroft nodded, helping himself to the quiche left over from earlier in the day. 

“Well where are they eating?  Sleeping?” he asked, glancing over at Sherlock who had remained silent since the show of solidarity by the family staff.

“Several are here of course,” Mycroft said.  “In the old staff quarters.  Eating in the downstairs kitchen.”

“You’re joking,” John said, as he too helped himself to food. He’d been in battle enough to know to take food and sleep whenever it was offered.  You never knew if it was going to be your last meal.

“I assure you I am not,” he said.  He looked at Sherlock.  “Also, DI Lestrade has been briefed on the matter at hand.  I believe he promised to ‘punch you’ when next you met, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed a response.

Later, after Mycroft had answered every conceivable question Sherlock had thrown at him, he stood in the entry hall with them.  “I should be going,” he said. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “You should.  There is no point Mummy losing both her sons and her home if it is not necessary.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, and then fell silent.  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out two phones and handed one to each.  “I had anticipated most of the staff would not leave, though I confess Katie surprised me a bit.”  He sighed.  “I have phones to distribute to them as well.  All are scrambled, prefilled with each other’s phone numbers.  You, John and Mrs. Meadows also have my personal phone number inside.

Surprisingly, he moved and pulled Sherlock into an awkward hug.  After making a little squawking noise, Sherlock seemed to hang on fiercely for a moment.  “Travel safely, Brother,” he said.

“You as well,” Mycroft said.  Pulling away, he held his hand out to John.

“I’ll keep him safe,” John vowed.

Upstairs, Sherlock waited until John had closed the bedroom door behind him.

“Well, here we are again: waiting for a maniac to slaughter the people closest to me.”  He was watching John carefully.

John flashed him a tired smile.  “We’ll be fine.  Mycroft has an entire legion of killers surrounding the house.”  He untied his tie and wound it around his hand.  “You feel like sleeping?”

“I’m too agitated to sleep,” Sherlock said, striding up and down the length of the bedroom.

“Do you want me to go?” John asked, suddenly unable to read the tension in Sherlock’s face, what he wanted.

“No!” Sherlock said, sharply.  “I think it’s time.”

John cocked his head. “Time for what?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned, unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt, meticulously stripping off his jacket.  “It’s time.  I want you to fuck me.”

John knew he was gaping like a fish but there was nothing for it. “No,” he said.  Though his body achingly disagreed with him.  “I will not.  Not until you’re able to enjoy it.”

Sherlock continued to strip.  “I enjoyed you touching me.”

“Great,” John said, his mouth going dry as the naked expanse of Sherlock’s lower body came into view.  _Did this man ever wear pants?_   “Then you can enjoy it again.”

“But you didn’t want me to touch you,” Sherlock said, moving closer, crowding John’s space, pushy as ever, the overgrown git.

“No.  But I did alright, didn’t I?” John looked up and sucked in his bottom lip.  He enjoyed watching Sherlock track the micro-expression.

“John, how long do you think we’ll be in an intimate relationship?” Sherlock asked apropos of nothing John could see.

“That’s a funny question,” he said, automatically recoiling.  “Why are you asking?”

“Because I’d like to know the answer: how long?” Sherlock asked.  “4 weeks? 4 months?  4 Years? 40?”

John blew out a shaky breath.  “Well, I’d – I honestly don’t know how to answer.”

“You must have some idea,” Sherlock said, urgency in his voice.  “I’d like to think I’d last longer than your average girlfriend.”  Looking up he must have seen the pain in John’s eyes. “Sorry, Ms. Morston excepted of course, didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.  But don’t you see?  This is an area where I have no data. Oh, I know all the statistics about how one in two marriages dissolves, and non-formalized relationships are even less stable – ”

“Sorry,” John interrupted.  “Did you just ask me to marry you?”

Sherlock’s head snapped back.  “Of course not,” he said. “I’d prefer to wait until after we’ve had proper sex.”

“Proper?” John began.

“You know what I mean,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.   “And that brings me back to my point entirely: we’ll assume for the sake of argument that our relationship – our intimate relationship – is going to be long term. 

“As such, given our respective ages, there will be times when one or both of us have ‘performance issues’.  Does that mean that the other partners shouldn’t be pleasured just because one of us is having an off day?  I mean: isn’t that the ‘giving’ part of the relationship you’ve been alluding to?”

John shook his head, trying to clear cobwebs, trying to keep up.  He stared at Sherlock as if he’d never seen anything so remarkable. 

Sherlock smiled, and preened.

“You are completely mad,” John said.

Sherlock’s face fell. “What?”

“I was talking about reciprocity,” John said.  “Your argument would be sound if we were an old married couple.”

“Did you just propose?” Sherlock asked voice dripping sarcasm.

“Shut up,” John said, but then groaned when Sherlock moved in and picked up John’s hands, placing them at the enticing dimples on either side of his bottom.  “There will be no ‘fucking’ Sherlock,” he said.  “Not until you’re better.”


	14. Chapter 14

Forty eight hours had passed since Mycroft had left them with the warning.  Everyone was twitchy.  Every door shutting or even a creak on the hardwood floors brought everyone to attention.

“Trust me,” Sherlock said dryly. “You’ll never hear them coming.”

“Oh thanks for that,” John said, slamming shut the novel losing place of the page he’d been staring at but not reading for the last thirty minutes. 

Before he knew it, Sherlock was behind him, breathing into his ear.  “I know how to distract you,” he said, his tongue darting out to touch John’s earlobe.  “I’ll let you fuck me on the sofa.

“Are you mad?” John said, groaning because his body was already halfway there.  Behind his eyes he could easily see Sherlock spread out on his back, knees pulled up, allowing John access to the innermost part of him.  “Stop it!”

“You’re the only one stopping it,” Sherlock said, sounding imminently logical.

John moved away and stared into those remarkable ever-changing eyes.  “Why do you want this so badly?  Would you rather wait until you could really enjoy it?”

“I’d rather not die a virgin,” Sherlock said.

John’s breath caught.  “What?” he turned.  “You’re not going to die,” he said.  Then he looked closer, suspicious of the decidedly innocent look on Sherlock’s face.  “Since when exactly have you concerned yourself with dying a virgin?”

“It’s a recent development,” Sherlock replied his eyes big.

“You bastard!” John said, staring at him and then he laughed.  “Christ, I forgot what a manipulator you can be.”

Sherlock grinned at him, happiness showing on his face.  “Very good, John.”

“So,” John said, eyes narrowing, chin up.  “You really don’t want to be fucked on the sofa?”  He watched as Sherlock’s pupils enlarged.  He took note of the pulse now slightly faster at the base of Sherlock’s neck.  He dropped his voice.  “So, shall I tell you how I’d do it then?”

He stood abruptly.  “Better yet,” he moved into Sherlock’s space.  “Let’s do a quick run through.  I found that to be very effective,” he said, his voice ending on a growl.

Looking a bit shell shocked, Sherlock didn’t object when John took him by the wrist and pulled him to the sofa.  “Down,” he said the snap of the military in his voice.  Sherlock sat.

“Lay back,” John said.  He ran his hands down Sherlock’s thigh.  “Good thing these trousers have a bit of give in them,” he said.  “Or you could take them off.”

A groan escaped from Sherlock and John chuckled.  “Pull your knees to you,” he said.  The gasp Sherlock made was most rewarding.

John positioned himself on the couch, parting Sherlock’s legs.  “I’ll take you like this,” he said.  “I want to see your face.  I want to be able to kiss you….” He leaned down and kissed Sherlock now.  “I want to watch you come apart under me.”

“Oh GOD!” Sherlock moaned.  “John!”

“From this angle I’ll be able to see you in all your proud glory,” and John reached down, carefully placing his hand over Sherlock’s crotch. 

What he felt there made him jerk back in surprise. “Sherlock?”

“Now!” Sherlock said, fingers already flying to his belt and zips.  “You promised!”

John was stunned, feeling the heat and strength of Sherlock’s member filling.  For him.  Sherlock wanted him.  “Oh God!” he echoed.

Leaning down, he batted Sherlock’s hands away and kissed him, hard, messy, with promise.

Sherlock jerked his mouth free.  “John!” he called, voice a wreck.

“Give me a minute,” John growled.  Fumbling with his own trousers he wished he’d taken a cue from Sherlock and forgone the pants.  And because he couldn’t not, he had to reach back down, touching Sherlock through his trousers.  Wanting confirmation he wasn’t dreaming.

Sherlock cursed a blue streak, causing John to giggle.  “Language!” he said, happiness filling his body.  Then Sherlock had grabbed his hand, shoving it down into his open flies, against the velvety hardness of Sherlock’s surprisingly thick cock.

“Argghh” was all he managed before Sherlock had his own hands down John’s trousers.  “Not gonna last,” he warned, a pulse beating at the base of his spine, sparks every time Sherlock pulled back his foreskin.

“Want to suck you,” Sherlock said, voice shaking.

“You have a filthy mouth for a virgin,” John said.

“Shut. Up,” Sherlock said, “Who thought this couch was a good idea?” He asked, wiggling, pushing up into John’s hand.  “John!  Move.  Your hand.  Move it.  Please.”

“Oh right,” John said, momentarily struck immobile, caught in the rhythm of Sherlock’s hands touching him so expertly. 

He was about to groan his warning when the lights went out.  “What?!” he stilled, immediately alert.

“The generators will come on,” Sherlock said, pulling John back down.  “Weather was predicting strong winds.”

As if on cue, the lights came back on, albeit a bit dimmer, and John shook off the hair standing up on the back of his head and allowed Sherlock to pull him closer, his mouth promising all manner of amazing things to come.

The room went black.

Sherlock and John froze, then disentangled themselves, up and quickly redressed. 

“They’re here,” Sherlock said.

“So much for Mycroft’s mercenaries,” John said, reaching into his pocket for the mobile Mycroft had provided.

A powerful flood light caught him directly in the eyes as he went to unlock the phone.  He felt a small prick, like a mosquito bite, then he was collapsing, legs giving away as if they’d never hold him again, ending up with his head resting on the oriental carpet.

“John!” Sherlock cried out.

The generator lights came up and from his position on the floor, between the legs of the three intruders, John could see two crumpled bodies in the kitchen and he hoped they were alive.

It was an odd sensation, like he couldn’t move, but he was alert.  In his head he began cataloging various toxins that could produce this sort of reaction. 

From here he heard a woman’s voice.  “The great Sherlock Holmes,” she spat.  “What an honor it is to breach the childhood estate of such a distinguished member of society.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked, disdain radiating off of him.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” she said.

“Well then if you won’t tell me, let me tell you,” Sherlock began.  “You’re someone’s misguided family member seeking your revenge for the ‘wrongful’ death or imprisonment, am I right?”

When she didn’t answer, John saw Sherlock’s feet moving forward. 

The boots of the other two intruders took a step closer to her, their leader then.

“No, not someone’s wife,” Sherlock said.  “Or widow.  No gloves and no facemask, unlike your henchmen here, so you have no intention of leaving alive.”  He stopped and John prayed he’d shut up before she ordered him killed or killed Sherlock herself. 

John heard leather moving and flicked his eyes to see Sherlock lean in closer, judging by the position of his feet.  “No, you’re someone’s daughter.”  Sherlock paused.  “Ah.  Sebastian Moran’s bastard child.”

She gasped and John gritted his teeth, about the only course of action open to him at the moment.

“So, you’re here to kill me?” he asked, his tone bored.

“I’m not a killer,” she snapped.  “Unlike you: I haven’t killed anyone.  And I won’t even kill your ‘friend’” her voice sneered, “Though that was the original assignment my father took.”

There was a silence and John wondered if she was waiting for some reaction from Sherlock.  Well, if so, she had a long wait coming.  Finally she said, “Unlike you, I don’t kill indiscriminately.  But I want him to see you for what you are.”

“And what is that?” Sherlock asked, the bored, goading tone John hadn’t heard in full force for over three years. 

“A cold blooded killer,” she said, tone vicious.

“How dull,” Sherlock said.  “You’ve traveled half way around the globe in order to tell my friend here something he already knows?  After taking out half of a private army to stand in my birthplace?  Really?  That’s it?  That’s all?” 

John felt his own heart beat speeding up as he waited the inevitable sound of a gun being drawn, whether to kill or just knock Sherlock out just to shut him the hell up he didn’t know – wait!

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something, something he couldn’t quite identify but a surge of adrenalin coursed through him as he prayed it was help and not more thugs.

“What a disappointment you must have been to your father,” Sherlock drawled.

“Sherlock!” John tried to get out past paralyzed throat muscles. 

“You bastard!” she yelled and John heard the guns being drawn by her bodyguards. “Kill him!”

“Ma’am! One of them called, “Get down!” Chaos erupted.  Guns firing, glass shattering, screams from every direction as bodies fell to the floor.  John just prayed Sherlock was still alive.

“In there!” he heard a familiar voice, then “Medics!” and dammit if he didn’t want to cry at the sound of Lestrade’s and Donovan’s voices.  They were like a balm in this place suddenly flooded with lights, dust, glass particles and feet everywhere.  Someone reached down and pulled him to sitting, taking his pulse at his Carotid artery.  “Thank Christ,” he heard muttered and managed to drag his eyes up to lock with Greg Lestrade’s.

Lestrade grinned, but John thought he saw moisture in his eyes.  “Just like old times, ‘eh?”

“Sherlock.”

John tried to turn when he heard Mycroft’s voice, but was unable.  Seeming to understand his need, Lestrade scooted him so he could see.  Had he been able his body would have deflated with relief to see Sherlock alive, standing over the woman, a pistol in his hand.

“Give me the gun,” Mycroft said.

“Is John alright?” Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

“He’s fine,” Lestrade called out. 

“And Mrs. Meadows and the others?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said.  “They’re all fine.  The guards on the perimeter – ”

Never looking away from his hostage Sherlock snorted at the term.  “Do not mention your guards to me,” he warned.

“As you wish,” Mycroft said, moving carefully closer.  “Those first knocked out by the dart guns are already coming around. It would seem she used a paralytic, but not one of a lethal dosage.

Sherlock looked down at her.  “I would just as soon kill you as breathe,” he said.

John closed his eyes, trying to take in his own breath.  Sherlock had become this because of him.

“However,” Sherlock said and then paused.  “I am not your father or his deranged boss,”

John’s eyes flew open as he heard Sherlock de-cock the gun.  “Please remove her from my presence,” he said, his voice calm as he handed the gun to Mycroft.

Everyone in the room was momentarily stunned, except Donovan who moved forward quickly cuffing the woman.

Spinning, Sherlock, dropped to the floor, and took John’s face in his hands.  “John?”

“Fine,” John managed to squeeze out.  “Fine,”

Sherlock moved him away from Lestrade and took him into his own arms.  “It’s not fine,” he said, cradling John like a child, rocking him.  John wasn’t sure who he was comforting.

The relative peace was shattered when a scuffling sounded from the area of the kitchen, and then a woman screamed.  John saw her wrench away from whoever was holding her and running, collapsing in sobs atop one of the still henchmen.

Dear God, John thought.

“Katie?” Mycroft said.

One of Mycroft’s useless assassins stood in the door, the one the barely nine stone woman had just escaped from said, “Sir, we found her trying to leave out the back.”

Katie looked up, tears and mascara streaming down her face as she clutched at one of Moran’s daughter’s thugs.  “You killed him!” she screeched.  “We were to be married!”

Sherlock turned him away from the police officers having to physically carry her away.  “I never did like her,” Sherlock whispered. 

John felt his throat muscles release and he forced a quiet chuckle.  And he hadn’t and all. “Over,” John he managed to squeak out.

Sherlock stilled and looked down.  “What did you say?”

“It’s over,” John gasped, a bit louder.                           

Clasping him even tighter, John could feel Sherlock bury his nose in his hair

“It is, isn’t it?” he said.

Mycroft walked over and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Yes, Sherlock.  It is finally over.”


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft had his henchmen-turned-nursemaids carry the poisoned staff and guards from outside taken up to the wing Sherlock and John were occupying. 

John heard Mycroft barking out orders, calling for a medical team to be evac-ed in.  “And I need a toxicology team on site as well,” he said.  “You have 60 minutes.”

Wondering how on earth that was even feasible, John panicked as he felt himself being lifted. 

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock murmured.  “I’m taking you up to bed.”  He glanced down and must have read the murderous look on John’s face.  “It’s me or one of Mycroft’s men,” he said.  “Your choice.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock stopped at John’s bedroom door and carefully balancing him against his chest, Sherlock opened the door, and then softly kicked it closed behind them.

“It will be quieter here,” he said, gently laying John on the bed, on top of the covers.  “Mycroft will put the others further down the hall and the medical team even further, next to my room.”

“How many?” John managed.

“Nine, total.” Sherlock looked at him, reading the questions almost before they had fully formed them in his mind.  “They’re all fine. Mostly fine.  One of the men has asthma.  He is the most at risk.”  Sherlock snorted.  “That is what Mycroft gets for hiring faulty help.”

John scowled, perplexed when Sherlock’s face broke into a smile.  “A joke,” Sherlock said.  He reached down and ran his hand down John’s face.  “Are you alright for a moment?” he asked.

John moved his head in the smallest of nods.

“I’d like to go check on Nanny,” he said.  “There’s an officer with her, but….”

John smiled and tried to jerk his chin toward the door to indicate Sherlock should go.

“Well, actually,” Sherlock began. “I’ve had her put next door, so I could keep an eye on you both.”  He walked toward the toilet.  “Won’t be a minute,” he said.

 

~ooOoo~

After a cursory knock, Sherlock opened the door connecting the toilet to the room Nanny was in. 

The female officer stood from the chair she’d been sitting in.  “She’s resting quietly, sir.”

Sherlock nodded, and she slid quietly out the door.

As he touched her hand, Nanny opened her eyes.   He touched her cheek.  “How are you feeling?”

She nuzzled her chin into his hand. 

Knees almost buckling, Sherlock sank to the bed.  “Nanny,” he said, a tremor in his voice he couldn’t be bothered with.  “I’m so sorry to have put you in harm’s way.”

She managed a smile.

“Are you hurt anywhere,” he asked.  “From the fall?” Without asking permission he began probing various joints for pain, watching her face intently.  “What about breathing?  Are you having any trouble breathing?”

He watched as she minutely moved her head side to side. 

“So no then?” Sherlock said.  He continued his gentle probing.  His mind raced wondering what the neurotoxin used was.  And why could John already manage to talk, after a fashion, and Nanny couldn’t.

“Sher – ” he heard her breathe.

“Nanny, don’t try to talk.  Don’t strain yourself.”  He clutched her hand to his chest.  “Please.”

“Young man,” she forced out. “Your young man?”

“John?” he asked.

She nodded.

“John is fine,” Sherlock answered.  “A bit better than you at the moment.  He’s right next door.”  Sherlock leaned down and kissed her brow.  “You rest.  The doctor will be here shortly or Mycroft will order him killed.”

She smiled.  “You boys,” she managed.

“Hush,” he said, relieved she seemed to be recovering from the toxin.

“Young man,” she said again.  “Go.”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock said.  “And he’s hardly young.  Nor am I.”

“Always my baby,” she said.

He leaned down and gave her a fierce hug.  “Thank you,” he said.  “For everything.”

Standing before he could change his mind he went to the door to the hallway and opened it, letting the officer back in.  “I’ll be next door – the room connected.  Let me know if her condition deteriorates or if she needs something.”

“Yes sir,” she responded.

With one last caress of Nanny’s check, he kissed her forehead before quickly returning to the toilet. 

Alone for the first time since chaos had erupted, Sherlock braced his hands on the cool granite countertop, head hung down, drawing in deep shuddering breaths.

He didn’t want to be what that woman said he was.  He hadn’t been.  But after his plunge into an underworld of seediness he’d known existed, even exploited as necessary, but had never lived in for so long, he was no longer so sure.  

Had John been dead Sherlock knew he would have killed her without mercy in front of Mycroft and half of Scotland Yard.  He might have even done so had Nanny been killed.

The noise of a helicopter caught his attention, and he stood, adjusted his shirt and suit jacket and went back to John.

“What’s that?” John asked his voice clearer.

“The doctor, I presume,” Sherlock answered.

“You have a heliport?” John asked disbelief in his voice

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said.  “Need I say more?”


	16. Chapter 16

The next 24 hours were a bit of blur as an entire medical team descended upon the house.  John had allowed the blood draw but then shooed the doctor away.  “I’m a doctor,” he’d said.  “I’m fine.  I understand one of the other victims was asthmatic. After him, please check the woman next door.”

Sherlock had glowered at him but remained silent.

John had drifted for a while, half in and half out of consciousness, the noise on the floor and downstairs kept him from entering a deep sleep.  He’d felt warmth encase him and the bed dip as Sherlock covered him with the throw, curling around him, arm possessively around John’s waist.

He awoke fully when someone touched his shoulder, and he looked up with blurry eyes into the face of the doctor, and behind him, Mycroft.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked, picking up John’s wrist and taking his pulse.

“Fine,” John said. Then stopped, startled.  His voice had sounded normal.

“We’ve isolated the neurotoxin,” Mycroft said.  “There should be no permanent damage.”

“For which that woman should be very grateful,” Sherlock said from behind John, his voice cold.

“I need to listen to your heart,” the doctor murmured, warming his stethoscope on the palm of his hand before slipping it through a gap in John’s shirt.  It was silent in the room while he did his examination.  “Heart sounds good.  Now a few questions.”

John had to firmly fix his most patient smile, pun intended given doctor’s tend to make terrible patients, as the doctor drilled him about how he felt, walking through some basic reflex tests.  But needs must and he gritted his teeth and answered one by one.  He caught a smirk on Mycroft’s face and knew he and Sherlock were sharing a look.

Once the doctor left, Sherlock said. “Other than the fact no one died, this was a colossal failure, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock!” John began, but Mycroft cut him off by holding up a hand.

“No John,” he said. “Sherlock is correct.  My apologies to you both.”

“How did Katie get involved with this cell group?”

Mycroft pressed his forehead as if trying to get rid of a headache.  Most likely he was, John thought.  “To put it succinctly, she was lured in by what appeared to be a legitimate dating site.”

“A dating site?”  John asked.

Sherlock blew out a breath through his nose, sounding like an angry stallion.  “Ridiculous,” he said, distain apparent.  “Let me take it from here, Brother Dear?”

John looked back to Sherlock then back to Mycroft, gaining more control of his body every minute.  “I don’t understand.  Did you interrogate her too?”

“No need,” Mycroft said.  “As Sherlock eluded, it is patently obvious.”  A trill emanated from his jacket pocket.  “Excuse me,” he said, reaching in and pulling out the phone.  “Ah,” Mycroft said, pulling a face.  “Carry on, Sherlock.  I’m confident you’ll not miss a beat.”

Still unclear, John looked up at Sherlock. 

“She met someone on line.  He convinced her he loved her.  He sent her an airline ticket to Tenerife where she spent 10 days making love to one of Moran’s bastard’s henchmen.  He told her a sad tale of woe regarding how his and his ‘sister’s’ ‘father’ and had been killed by me due to some blood lust.  They didn’t want to kill me.  They only wanted to talk to me.  But they knew they would never be allowed to speak to me through ordinary channels.  So they devised a pretty little scheme in order to get them inside the estate.”

“You’re joking,” John said incredulous.  But looking between the brothers he saw no signs that they weren’t serious.  “So, poisoning people, leaving a trail of bodies in the wake and, on that note, why the hell would we have armed guards?  What did she think we were doing in here? Locked in for the fun of it?”

“Well,” Sherlock began a sly look on his face.  “Some of it was fun.”

“Most of it wasn’t though,” John snapped, angry all over again. 

Mycroft stepped in.  “Katie is claiming,” he pulled the phone out and made a show of reviewing the text again, though John knew bloody well that Mycroft had an eidetic memory and had no need for the prop.  “Let’s see: she didn’t know about the poisoned darts.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“She thought the guards were here because I had Sherlock under house arrest,” Mycroft continued as if Sherlock had made no interjection.

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock said.  “I believe she should stop reading fiction immediately and get a grip on reality.”

Mycroft smiled: the one that John now knew meant Katie should be very afraid.   “Oh, I daresay she’ll have plenty of time to sort out fiction from reality.”  He made a small bow.  “You must both be exhausted.  I’m going to check in on Mrs. Meadows.  I understand she is physically doing well, but has heard about Katie and is beside herself.”

“I’ll check in on her later, as well,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock stood and began stripping as Mycroft closed the door.  He turned back, lowering eyes.  “I haven’t forgotten what was interrupted by the hijinks downstairs,” he said, voice velvety promise.

“Nor have I,” John said, mouth suddenly dry, watching as Sherlock peeled off his trousers, again revealing miles of pale leg and a bare backside.  This time, instead of his member lying flaccid, John could see it stirring, lengthening and firming up.  “Oh my God,” he breathed.  “Look at you,” he said.  “Come here.”

The left side of Sherlock’s mouth curled up.  “I don’t think so,” he said.

John was stunned.  “What?  Why not?”

“Well, I will come there, but not for the reason which is written all over your face.”

“It’s not just my face,” John growled.  “Come here.  I want to touch you.”

Now Sherlock chuckled, only making John’s trousers that much tighter. “I’m following the doctor’s orders,” Sherlock said, his voice all innocence.

“Not _this_ doctor’s orders,” John said, moving his hand, though not as fast or as coordinated as he’d like reaching toward the naked beauty standing just out of reach.

“No,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning his shirt, then his cuffs.  The bastard flicked his shoulders back and it fell artfully to the floor.  Casually he reached down and touched himself.  Gently at first, as if it felt new to him as well. 

John groaned as Sherlock firmed up his stroke, taking himself to full erection.  “You…you have no idea do you?  No idea at all what you’re doing to me.”

Sherlock grinned turning to the large gold gilded mirror across in front of the foot of the bed.  He preened a little and John laughed.  “You arrogant sod.”

Turning back, Sherlock sashayed as he came closer, but once again stopped short of John’s hand.  “I’m going to get you undressed,” Sherlock murmured.  “Just so you’re more comfortable – no other reason.” Sherlock caught his eyes, lowered his lids and stuck his lip out in a pout.  “Doctor’s orders.  You need to rest.”

“You can’t be serious,” John said, groaning as Sherlock helped him sit, pulling him so close John buried his face in Sherlock’s clavicle.  The tangy scent of him did nothing to diminish his erection.  The feel of Sherlock’s fingers dragging over his arms as he slowly pulled the jacket off caused John to moan.  “Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair, moving to lazily unbutton the dress shirt.  “Precedence has been set,” he said, sliding his hands between them, unbuckling John’s belt, his hand lingering far longer than was necessary.

If John had full mobility he’d have bucked up into that warm hand. As it was he slid his left hand flush against Sherlock’s slim stomach, the back of his hand barely brushing Sherlock’s erection, as it almost tucked up against its owner’s stomach.

He jerked and groaned.  “John!”

John continued the slow circles he was rubbing in Sherlock’s stomach, each time allowing his hand to come into more and more contact with Sherlock’s member.

Pleased when Sherlock’s hands shook as he less carefully and more quickly pulled off John’s trousers and pants with one swoop.  After tossing them in the floor, he was back, straddling John, naked, hard and needy.

John managed to get his hands up, onto Sherlock’s hips, urging him down until their erections were trapped together.

“John!” Sherlock cried out then swooped down and plundered John’s mouth.  “Only you,” he said between brutal kisses. “Mine.  Only you,” he pulled off and dove into John’s neck and bit down, then tongued the flesh.  “Mine.  Only you,” he said again, like a mantra.

Speechless, John just rode with it.  Whether Sherlock had been serious about following the doctor’s orders to get some rest, John had no idea but of this he was sure: there was no stopping this train now.  “More friction,” he finally gasped.  “Use your hand, Sherlock.  Please.”

Stilling, Sherlock looked at his eyes and then pulled back, smiling as if John was the most brilliant man in the universe.  “Of course,” he said. 

Trying to help, John rolled with Sherlock, as Sherlock rolled onto his left side, sealing them together with only enough room for Sherlock to slide his hand between them.  John moaned as Sherlock’s long fingers surrounded both of them.  It wasn’t going to take long.  Not for either of them by the sounds coming out of Sherlock’s throat, and by how slick they both were as Sherlock’s hand moved in perfect rhythm, the way it had one time before.

He kept his eyes on Sherlock whose milky white skin was stained from his neck down to his chest with the flush of lust.  His hand was moving quickly.  How could the strokes be so perfect for them both John wondered.  But he watched as Sherlock flung his head back, eyes closed, mouth open. 

And that was all it took: the look of him, the sounds, and smells, his hand wrapped around John working them together.  “Sherlock!” he cried, pulsing all over Sherlock’s hand.

“Oh!” Sherlock said, eyes snapping open, and then froze, spilling all over his hand and the heat on John’s sensitive skin made him jerk once again, crying out with the aftershock.

Immediately, Sherlock jerked John up on top of him.  “Only you,” he said. 

“Yes,” John said, closing his eyes.  “Only you.”


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock slipped from underneath a sleeping John, a need for the toilet paramount.  After using the facilities, he looked in the mirror.  Yes, sex was messy.  He crinkled his nose as he flaked off a bit of said mess.  Turning, he checked his neck, looking for marks and was disappointed to find none.

Seeing John’s robe on the back of the door, he wrapped himself in it then knocked lightly on Nanny’s door.  Hearing no answer he slowly turned the knob, easing the door open he stepped through.   A small light across the room gave off a dim glow. 

A nurse was sitting up in a chair.  She looked up and smiled when he came in.

Sherlock crossed to her.  “How is she?”

“She’s fine,” she responded, voice low.  “She’s resting peacefully.”  The nurse looked at the bed and tsked.  “It’s been a hard day for her.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.  “Please let her know Sherlock looked in.  If she needs anything please knock through the toilet.  I’m right next door.”

“Of course Mr. Holmes,” she said.

Sherlock flashed a quick smile and turned to go.

“Sherlock?” Nanny asked.

Crossing back in two long strides, he knelt next to the bed.  “Oh Nanny – I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“Never, my darling boy,” she said “I told you: you never disturb me.”  She smiled.  “How’s Dr. Watson?”

“He’s recovering. Sleeping now, like you should be,” he said, gently.  “I’ll leave you.  I just wanted to see you for myself.”

Pulling her hand free, she touched his face.  “He’s a good man, Sherlock.”

Suspicious moisture filled his eyes, and Sherlock blinked rapidly and nodded.

“Don’t be afraid to show him all of you,” she said.  “He loves you.”

Sherlock swallowed and returned the gesture, cupping her face.  “You were the first you know.  To love me unconditionally.”

“I’ve carried those memories of you tucked in the crook of my arm on the bed in the nursery as we read ‘Velveteen Rabbit’ sometimes we’d even act it out.  Do you remember?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.  “Those are some of my favorite memories.”

“Hold onto them, Sherlock,” she said.  “And hold onto him.”

Sherlock reached up, kissed her cheek.  “I love you, Nanny.  I promise not to be such a stranger in future.”

She smiled and closed her eyes. 

Standing, Sherlock turned back to the nurse.  “I’m right next door,” he said again. 

But instead of heading back the way he came, he carefully opened the door leading to the hallway.  He saw no one else and was able to slip into his room, retrieve what he needed, and padded silently back to John’s room.


	18. Chapter 18

John woke with a gasp: warm wet heat surrounding him, the weight on his legs holding him down, the unbelievably perfect suction as Sherlock swallowed him down. “Christ!” he moaned.  “Sherlock!”

He hummed around John and John almost couldn’t stand the additional sensation.

“You’re. Killing. Me,” he ground out. 

Mischievous eyes looked up and God in Heaven if that wasn’t the sexiest thing ever: Sherlock’s mouth, around him like he’d never tasted anything better.

“I’m – ” and then he was: eyes locked with Sherlock, he came, shoving his hand in his mouth remembering there were other people on the floor.

Sherlock crawled up his body, kissing lightly until John pulled him up, desperate to have the taste of himself mixed with Sherlock’s saliva.

“Your mouth is cold,” Sherlock said.

John pulled back.  “Sorry, what?”

“Your mouth,” Sherlock said, dipping down for another filthy kiss.  “It is much cooler than your erection.”

John stuttered a laugh.  “Seriously?”

Sherlock blinked.  “Yes.  No one has ever told you that before?”

John shook his head, a giggle threatening to overtake him.  “No.  Never heard that before.”  He sat up and looked down at the beautiful body, whole, breathing, breathtakingly real.  And very much aroused.

Shoving Sherlock over, he landed on his back with an “oomph.”

He skimmed his hand down Sherlock’s flank, enjoying the trembling in its wake.  “Now,” he began, tonguing the right hip flexor muscle, and continuing south.  He used his hand to lightly run over and around Sherlock’s erection.  Weighing it, watching it, learning how it liked to be touched.  “You’re beautiful,” he said, reaching forward to touch his tongue to the precome slick glans already protruding from Sherlock’s foreskin.  He brushed his tongue over it and Sherlock tensed, a small moan escaping.

“Now,” John said again, eyeing the very erect member in front of him.  “What would you like?”

“John!” Sherlock wheezed.  “Please!”

John took another swipe, this time taking the glans completely into his mouth, then backing off.

Another groan for his efforts made him smile.  “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know!” he ground out and keened a high whine as John, kissed first and then gently nibbled at Sherlock’s inner thigh.

“Then how will I know if I’m pleasing you?” John teased.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock said, moving quickly and upending John until he found himself flat on his back.

Sherlock was moving, grinding against John’s hip and John felt himself beginning to get erect again.  “You’re going to kill me,” he moaned into Sherlock’s talented mouth.

“What I _should_ do is,” Sherlock growled.  “I _should_ turn you over.” He nipped at John’s neck.

Yes, yes, definitely something stirring below now.

“I should spread you wide open,” Sherlock said, still kissing and biting.  His hips still pumping.

John groaned now, his own hips bucking up.  This should be medically impossible.  He was over 40 and had zero refractory period.

“I should open you up with my tongue and my fingers,” he said.

“Holy shit!” John said, reaching down between them.  Now he needed more friction.  The thought of Sherlock’s gifted tongue used in a place where no one’s had ever touched had him rutting aggressively.  “Shut up!” he said.  “Shut up or – ”

Sherlock fused his mouth over John’s as he slipped a lubricated finger into John.

“Arggh – where the _hell_ did you get lube?” he mumbled, bearing down, wanting more.

 “I’m very resourceful,” Sherlock said, kissing his way down John’s jaw.  “More?” he asked.

“Very much more,” John said, undulating his hips, trying out different angles.

“Hold still,” Sherlock murmured.  And John did.

The second finger was definitely different.  John had to suck in his breath to keep from pulling away.

Sherlock was now panting against his forehead.  “You’re so warm, John.  What must that feel like when you’re wrapped around me?”

Heat suffusing John’s face he forced himself to relax.  He wanted this.  He wanted it more than he believed Sherlock did.  And Sherlock was doing a damned fine impression of wanting this.

As he relaxed, Sherlock twisted his fingers, carefully searching.  John half laughed as he realized what Sherlock was looking for. 

Then he found it.  John saw stars.  “More,” he rasped out.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.  “We can do something else,” he said.

“Liar,” John said, affection in his voice.  There was sweat beading on Sherlock’s upper lip and he licked it away.  “More.”

And this time when Sherlock came back with three fingers, John only sighed.  “It’s good,” he said.  “It’s all good.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.  But John saw the frantic desire in his eyes: the heat, the want.  The need.

John stilled and waited until Sherlock’s eyes locked on him.  “I’m sure.”

Letting his eyes close, John lay there, hearing the preparatory sound of a lid snapping open, and then a condom wrapper as well.  He opened his eyes, watching as Sherlock rolled on the condom with shaking hands.  Then he bit his lower lip and hissed out a groan, as he lubed himself.

“Oh God,” John said. “You. Are. Perfect.”  And he meant it.  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for this man.  And nothing Sherlock hadn’t done for him. 

Sherlock had given up his life, basically died.  He’d killed for John. 

John doubted he’d ever know the extent of the brutality Sherlock had lived through those horrible years apart, but John wanted to do everything in his power to make the next years the best they’d ever known.

As Sherlock poised himself, between John’s legs, he looked lost, unsure.

“Sherlock,” John called softly.  He reached up and rang a finger up Sherlock’s thigh.  “It’s okay.” 

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes full of doubt when they should only be filled with desire.

John surged up, catching him in a kiss.  “It’s all fine.”

“I’m sorry, John,” he said.

Squeezing his eyes shut, John kissed Sherlock’s forehead.  “I know,” he said.  “I know.  It’s alright.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked again.  “Are you sure?”

John groaned, and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, the one still having lube on it and closed it around his own erection.  “It will be,” he ground out.  “As soon as you get cracking.”

Sherlock’s cheeks colored prettily and John knew Sherlock would kill him if he knew John had associated the word ‘prettily’ with him.  Sherlock lunged, pushing John’s shoulders, until he was flat of his back.

“I thought you wanted it the other way?” John whispered, trying to get back on track.  “The other day: when you covered me from behind, remember?”

“Oh I remember,” Sherlock said, his voice deep.  “But I also remember you had a different theory on the subject.  I thought we’d try it your way first.”

“How very democratic of you,” John managed to get out, as Sherlock repositioned him.  A thrill of desire and swept through his body as Sherlock took control, longing and lust back where it should be.

He felt Sherlock line up against John’s opening. 

“Stop me if it’s too much,” Sherlock said, then he moved.

John moaned, partially in pain, partially in wonder as Sherlock’s glans slid in past his sphincter muscle.

“Breathe,” Sherlock said.  “Try to relax.”

Struggling to do as Sherlock asked, John closed his eyes.  The erotic non-memory dreams that had ultimately led him to this place, beneath this beautiful man, rolled through his mind.  He’d wanted this for so very long.  Probably longer than he even knew.  Automatically he relaxed.

Sherlock sighed, and slid in a bit more.

John tried to arch to meet him.  “More,” he whispered.

A bead of sweat dripped off of Sherlock’s nose and John sighed.  There was no way he could have ever simulated the scent, the taste or the real sound of Sherlock above him, carefully lowering himself until he was fully seated inside John.

John did moan then and looking up he saw a once familiar look of understanding that Sherlock would get when he solved a case.  The ‘oh’ silently caught between his lips; he looked down, catching John’s eyes.  “John.  I need --- John.”

“Do it,” John said, and smiled up into that face.  A face he’d despaired of ever seeing again.  “Now!” he whispered with urgency, rocking his hips to incent Sherlock to move.

With a cry, Sherlock moved, snapping his hips, holding himself up with one hand, and trying to capture John’s erection with the other.

John began to bat his hand away, “I’ve got thi—” He broke off in mid word, groaning as Sherlock found his prostate.  “Holy shit!” he said.  “Again!”

And he did.  And again, and again until John froze, clenching every muscle so that when he came the force of his orgasm took Sherlock over the edge with him.

For long moments, John floated along in blissful afterglow, an almost deadweight of Sherlock on top of him.  And as far as John was concerned Sherlock could stay there forever.

But his backside had other ideas, and he groaned as Sherlock slipped free.

With energy John knew he didn’t have, Sherlock got up, went to the toilet came back with a warm flannel and cleaned them both up before tossing it to the floor.

John was almost asleep when Sherlock curled around him, and kissed the base of his neck, just below his hairline.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“For what?” he mumbled, snuggling further into Sherlock’s body.

“For letting me in….back into your life.”

Sherlock sounded entirely too coherent and serious.  John forced his tired limbs to turn and face him.

“You lost a lot,” Sherlock said.  “Because of me.”

Reaching forward, John pulled their foreheads together.  “We both did,” he said.  “But needs must.”  He placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips.  “Besides: now we’ve gained the world.”

Sherlock smiled the dazzlingly smile, once again looking as if John was the most brilliant man in the world.  “Yes we have, haven’t we?”

 

~Fin


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